


Stormborn

by TheFutureUnseen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fix-It, Jonerys will be endgame, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Limited, Resurrection, Slow Burn, everyone calm down, round two, the Journey is long and full of terrors
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-02-07 11:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 36,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21457318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFutureUnseen/pseuds/TheFutureUnseen
Summary: “I have no intention of conquering Westeros, my lords." Daenerys meets the questioning stares of those around the table, her voice low and even. "I have learned much from my mistakes and will not repeat them."A hush falls over the room and she laughs softly with a small shake of her head as if she is indulging the naivety of a child."No," Daenerys continues, her lips twisting into a cruel, exacting smile, "this time I mean to burn it off the map. When I'm through, there won’t be anything oranyoneleft to conquer.”The Gods gave her a second chance, a new life, but all Daenerys Targaryen wants is vengeance—fire and blood.
Relationships: Daario Naharis/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 535
Kudos: 351





	1. you're never coming back

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know who is still interested in reading a fix-it fic, but this beast poured out of me after the atrocity that was season 8. I wrote this as a way to process my own feelings about what DnD did to Daenery's character and thought I'd share it in case anyone else is interested. 
> 
> _Song Rec:_ Winter In My Heart by Vast  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. This is only a work of creative fanfiction drawn from an overactive imagination.   
  
**CW:** this story will contain quite a bit of graphic violence, mental illness, suicidal thoughts, grief, loss, etc. I struggle with MI myself so I don't take this lightly. My hope is to tell a story of healing, but it's going to start dark so please read with caution and compassion towards yourself and your own experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know who is still interested in reading a fix-it fic, but this beast poured out of me after the atrocity that was season 8. I wrote this as a way to process my own feelings about what DnD did to Daenery's character and thought I'd share it in case anyone else is interested. 
> 
> _Song Rec:_ Winter In My Heart by Vast  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. This is only a work of creative fanfiction drawn from an overactive imagination.  
  
**CW:** this story will contain quite a bit of graphic violence, mental illness, suicidal thoughts, grief, loss, etc. I struggle with MI myself so I don't take this lightly. My hope is to tell a story of healing, but it's going to start dark so please read with caution and compassion towards yourself and your own experience.

Darkness. 

An impenetrable shade of black. 

A void, expansive and empty—the antithesis of life. 

Then…

A rasping inhale reverberates inside her skull. The sound drags along the contours of her mind like talons, slicing her into fragments. Her body spasms, limbs jerking against something hard, wet, and cold…so very cold. It is only then that Daenerys remembers she has a body, that she is made of more than just smoke and ether. 

Pain blossoms in the center of her chest. Sharp. Hot. She gasps, hands reaching to that place—the tips of her fingers graze against naked skin, against tightly puckered flesh, still slick with... She recoils, inhales, chokes on the warm air around her. It is too thick, too ripe with the metallic scent of blood. She cannot breathe. It presses down on her face, her throat, her sternum until she is clawing it away, clawing at the gaping hole in her chest. 

_ Something _ clamps over her fingers, drawing them away from their violent probing. And it’s like falling beneath the icy surface of a frozen lake, this sensation, this feeling of someone else’s skin against hers. Her violet eyes fly open and blink against the inconstant light. Flickering red shadows dance across the stone ceiling; they skitter and distort as a shadow falls over her. 

Daenerys reels back. A scream shreds her throat as she scrambles away, tumbling from a slab of jet black stone. She tries to stand, but her legs refuse such sudden movement, and she crumples to the floor. 

Hooded figures surround Daenerys; they waver in her vision like firelight dancing before her eyes. She is naked, stripped bare, her body pressed against the very stone from which she tumbled. Air swims into her lungs slowly, unevenly, hindered by the fluttering of her heart. 

The hooded figures move to circle her, one drawing away from the rest, reaching out—Daenerys empties her lungs with an inhuman shriek that vibrates through her bones. The force of her bellow halts the approaching figure. For a moment. A breath. 

Dany tracks the movement—a cornered animal—as the figure kneels and slender hands pull back a crimson cloak. 

“_Mhysa_, you have nothing to fear from us.” 

The red priestess bows her head. Her sharp features and porcelain skin hint at a memory. Something shifts at the back of Dany’s mind. Sluggish. Slow. Like wading through mud, a name begins to form. 

“Kinvara?”

The woman’s head dips further still, a sign of submission, a greeting for a queen. Dany’s eyes dance around the room, taking in the candlelight, the crackling fire, the roughly huen table adorned by strange instruments which Daenerys has never seen before. Her gaze falls on a bowl stained crimson with blood. 

“Where am I?” 

“With the living, my queen. In Meeren.” 

_ Meeren. _ Dany inhales, air hissing through clenched teeth. She pushes herself up and winces as the stone bites into her palm. Every inch of her is tender, sensitive… raw, as if someone has flayed the top layer of her skin. 

“Careful, _ Mhysa_. Your body is still weak.” 

Two more cloaked figures step forward and wrap her in white; their movement is hesitant, even reverent. The pale cloth chafes at her skin; it reminds Daenerys of a funeral shroud. 

She feels another memory slither along her periphery. It comes closer with each inhale, an ember that burns with increasing intensity. Her whole body begins to tremble as the image becomes clearer, as time wraps around itself so that she is _there, _ once more, in the ruined throne room of King’s Landing, feeling the sharp sting of metal slide between her ribs and the anguished disbelief which suffuses her soul. The last thing she sees before slipping into darkness is a pair of stormcloud eyes widened in shock, as if they did not watch her bleed out, as if _ he _ was not the one to deal the killing blow. 

Jon Snow.

_You are my queen. Now and always. _

Dany’s jaw shivers open, but no sound escapes. Her eyes fall to the jeweled dagger laying on the table, to the flecks of blood which still cling to its surface. Her whole body burns, so hot that she trembles and the air leaves her lungs in one swift exhale. Rage bubbles beneath her skin, behind her eyes, down her throat. Rage and something far, far worse which she tries desperately to shove away, to ignore. She pulls at the rage, at the inferno of anger, at anything which will prevent _ that _feeling from taking hold. Her hand snaps out, closing around the cursed weapon. She throws it at the far wall and lets out a strangled cry as it clatters to the floor. 

“_Mhysa— _”

Daenerys whirls around to face the red woman. Her vision wavers for a moment and she is forced to steady herself against the stone table. “How am I standing here? How am I alive?”

“The Lord of Light cannot always be understood—”

“I don’t care about your lord,” Dany bites out. “I care about answers.” 

“You may not care, mother of dragons, but He has saved you. Your time in this world is not yet done. If it were, you would still be lying on that table and the Lord’s eye would be elsewhere.” 

The priestess’s face is inscrutable. Calm. A blank slate. Daenerys’ fingers bite the inside of her palm as she moves towards the fireplace, turning from the woman. She speaks over her shoulder. “If you cannot tell me how I am standing, then at least tell me how I came to be here...with you.”

“Your body was placed on the steps, my queen. By a dragon. His cries shook the city for an hour and then he flew east…only once he was gone did anyone dare to touch you.” 

“_Drogon_,” Dany breathes out. Something uncoils within her, a dread she had not known lived inside of her. Drogon was alive. _ Alive. _ She twists around, her eyes focusing on the red woman. “I suppose I should thank you for saving my life.” 

“I am merely an instrument of the Lord of Light.” 

Daenerys frowns. “But I am…_ living_?” 

Kinvara considers the Targaryen, tilting her head as if to weigh the question. “Of a sort. Though your soul is closer to death than most that walk this earth. You have tasted the land of shadows, my queen, and returned. Its mark will forever be upon you,” she nods at Daenerys’ chest, at the place where the puckered knife wound slices under her left breast. 

Dany’s stomach twists, unsettled by the woman’s words. Still, she swallows and manages to murmur a quiet ‘_thank you.’ _

“Do not thank me, _ Mhysa_. I could only save your life.”

“And I am grateful for it,” Dany insists.

“But what of the child?” 

Heat rushes through Daenerys then vanishes just as quickly, leaving her bone-cold. “What child?” 

“There were two lives lost. Two lives I asked the Lord of Light to restore, but he only granted me yours. The child was too young, too unformed, too—”

“Stop,” Daenerys hisses, tremors returning. “_Stop._” It is a plea this time, though whether she is speaking to the witch or to her own shaking body she no longer knows. Her head rocks back and forth, a silent denial; she cannot control the movement. She cannot control anything. Her eyelids flutter and she turns from the red woman, trying to focus on the flames licking at the stone fireplace, trying to feel the heat that must be there. She moves closer, closer, closer still until the flames lick at the hem of her white shroud. 

“Get out,” the words are hushed, barely spoken through chattering teeth. 

“_Mhysa— _”

“GET OUT!” 

Her scream echoes against the high ceiling, percussive and loud. Daenerys screams again. And again. And again. She screams until the room empties, until her voice is stripped raw, until her screams turn to sobs and her sobs turn to silence and the only thing left are the glimmering tracks of tears that run like rivers down her face. She sinks to the floor, head bent towards the flames and mouth ajar on a sob that no longer makes a sound. Numbness seeps into her bloodstream, a soothing darkness that beckons her. 

Everything fades in pieces: the pain in her body, the grief in her heart, the small hope for a brighter future. When they are all gone, the only thing Daenerys registers is a cruel rage that does not burn or boil but _ freezes_. It coats her veins in ice, hardening a shell around her heart so that it beats with a stunted rhythm. The arms of frost coil around one decision, one piece of knowledge that keeps her upright, keeps her sane. She is going to raise Westeros to the ground. She will reign fire and death and destruction, and when nothing remains except smoke and brittle bone, Daenerys Targaryen will have her last piece of revenge. She will kill Jon Snow. 

It could have been hours, or days, or even weeks; he wasn’t sure. Time stands frozen for him. He stares listlessly at the grey wall of his cell. He doesn’t see the chips in the stone or the mold which crawls through each crevice. He can still feel her blood seeping out onto his hands, still see the light leave her lilac eyes. Those eyes which had entranced him, beguiled him, _ trusted _ him. 

His hands are stretched out before him, resting against bent knees, upturned like a beggar’s might be, like he has claimed this corner to seek supplication. And maybe Jon has. If anyone would listen, he would beg them to turn back time so he might do things differently. 

_ “You had to do it. You had no other choice,” _one voice tells him, argues, justifies. It sounds like Tyrion even in the recesses of his own mind. 

_ “There is always a choice. You killed the woman you loved. Where is the honor in that?” _ Another voice scolds. This one sounds like his father—like Ned. 

But he barely listens to either. He can feel her dried blood caked between his fingers. The metallic odor burns at his nostrils, his eyes, his throat. He had begged for something to wash his hands with when they first locked him up. Greyworm hadn’t glanced back, had given no indication that he heard Jon. 

He asked for the Unsullied to kill him, but that too had been ignored. So they left him here, in this cold dark cell, hour after hour, after day, after week; he doesn’t know anymore. All he knows is that every time he moves a piece of her flakes off, falls to the damp floor. So he doesn’t move; he keeps his arms outstretched, upturned, still. 

Sometimes his head lulls as a merciless sleep tries to claim him, a sleep filled with images of her, of when he first showed her the North, of her laughing smile, of her small hands pulling him close. Those dreams leave him shaking, quivering, and choking back tears, but they are not the worst. There are dreams, ones that have him heaving onto the damp straw, which are infinitely more painful. In these dreams, they are not alone; a small child laughs from Dany’s arms. Girl. Boy. Jon is never sure. He jerks awake before he can see its face and then stares at the wall for hours, trying desperately to erase the picture from his head. 

But it never leaves him. Not when Greyworm brings a plate of foul-smelling slop, not when Jon counts the stones of the ceiling, nor when the metallic smell finally fades and the last bit of her has crumbled to dust on the ground. Not even then. So Jon stares and waits. Waits for the sun to rise in his windowless cell. Waits for the earth to tear open and swallow him whole. Waits for the dreams to stop coming. 

Jon Snow stares and waits, and wishes that the Seven, or whatever gods might be listening, will finally just let him fucking die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think? I'm looking for alpha/beta readers for this story. I've written at least 95% of it, but I probably won't post more until I find at least one reader. Let me know if you're interested!


	2. leave me at the altar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It looks like I unintentionally threw a live grenade into the fandom. I have since updated the tags to further clarify my intentions with this story. In case some of you forgot to read them again, they now say, “LMAO. Everyone calm down. Jonerys is endgame. The Journey is long and full of terrors.” 
> 
> A year ago, I would have been devastated by all the inane, hateful comments. Today, I had a good laugh. Exactly 0% of the flames came from people who a) linked their account or b) have written/uploaded anything. Lmao. 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you to all the lovely people who defended this story/me in the comments. You are all gorgeous gems and I love you. 
> 
> To those who were..._confused_: “Fix-it” by definition is to take something broken and mend it. That requires time and skill. I refuse to slap a bandaid on this dumpster pile and call it ‘fixed.’ I personally think it would be ridiculously unbelievable for Dany to wake up from resurrection and be like, “Daaaaamn, wow, I fucked up. All I needed was a good nap and now I’m better! Jon, who? Nah, I don’t care that he killed me. I’m gonna live in Essos, y’all.” Come on, guys. As one of my flames so eloquently said: *facepalm*  
  
**tl;dr:**  
1\. Jonerys will be endgame.  
2\. This is a very angsty story so if that’s not your genre, move along.  
3\. Jon and Dany are both unreliable narrators.  
4\. Thank you to all the lovely commenters.  
5\. To the haters: if you want to keep shooting flames, be my guest. You’ll just raise my comment count so that more people can see this story XD 
> 
> **BONUS:** If the flames continue, I will give a shout out each week to the best clapback comment! This week’s goes to Reddragon1995, who said, “Those who can, write. Those who can’t, are keyboard warriors who cry and whine that someone isn’t writing exactly what they want to read.”

This darkness is of a different kind. It surrounds her, cloaks her with fragile strands of gossamer shadows. She notes the pale light which creeps in through arched windows, observes its shifting nature, but the rays are stunted, too weak to reach the recess where her body sits immobile, frozen in a carved wooden chair.

Daenerys remains so still that her pale face appears to be etched from marble rather than living flesh; her hands grip the smooth arms of the chair, the tendons of her arms raised, pronounced, blue veins straining against the white pallor of her hands, her eyes stare fixedly at a crack in the sandstone floor, her chest rises and falls by the smallest fractions. It is a kind of meditation that she now practices, trying to distance herself from the needs of her body, to ignore the way every inch of her skin prickles with awareness as if it is slowly coming back to life. Her breasts and her sternum feels sore and achingly sensitive, the knife wound has yet to fully heal and every breath drags painfully against her clothes, scraping her tender skin. So she remains rooted, a statue made of stone to any who would look upon her. Vacant. Observing. 

She has turned inward, buried herself so deep in her own subconscious that her amethyst eyes barely flicker when Kinvara brings fresh food or as the red priestess removes the plate from the evening before which lays still untouched. Dany dives deeper.

Important memories take shape, dancing before her like specters of smoke and shadow. She drags forth these moments of her life, moments which shaped her, which taught her compassion and fortified her heart. One by one she buries them, cuts them away like a gangrenous limb, severs them with swift efficient brutality. 

_ Lies. They were all lies. _And she was a fool to have ever believed them. 

When Daenerys finally rises from the stiff back of the wooden chair, her bones creak in protest. Seven days have come and gone. That is all she has allowed herself. One week to grieve, to fall apart, to reshape herself into something new, something hard and impenetrable. 

She eats the cold meat and vegetables laid before her without tasting them and gulps down sweet Meereenese wine to wet her dry mouth before scrubbing her face clean and braiding back her tangled bone-white hair. Her movements are stiff and methodical. Her fingers have stopped shaking. Her breath is even. 

A silver mirror of frosted glass sits upon the vanity. Daenerys approaches it the way a wild animal might, with slow and cautious movements. She stares at her reflection, stares at a face she no longer recognizes as her own. Her already pale skin is now tinged with blue, the cold flesh drawn tight around the chapped edges of her lips. Dark circles shadow her eyes, catching the light; they only serve to emphasize the sunken hollowness of her face. And her hair…the long plait of silver tresses stares back at her, _ mocking _ her. She has won no victories. She deserves no braids. 

Unflinching, Daenerys reaches for the cursed dagger, the one that lived for a time in her chest. With her other hand, she grips the white tail of her hair so tightly that she can feel the burn across her scalp. She drags the blade through her hair, sawing at the fine threads of silver until they lay like scattered moonbeams on the floor. Each pull of the blade feels like penance, like justice. For Jorah. For the Dothraki. The Unsullied. Rhaegal. Missandei. 

The dagger clatters to the floor. Its silver blade gleams next to the limp white tail of her shame. When Daenerys looks in the mirror, her eyes are still blank, unfamiliar, but this time it seems to fit, to make a kind of sense. Her bone-white hair barely brushes her collarbone now. Her visage altered. She turns.

A black dress of satin and leather has sat on the bed, her only companion this past week. She robes herself in it and leaves the room with no intention of returning. 

Her footsteps echo through the empty halls; the noise bounces off tall ceilings, amplified like the rattle of hollow bones. Only a handful of people occupy the war room when she arrives; the Second Sons and the newly appointed leaders of Meereen converse in hushed tones which fade into silence as Daenerys enters. A mixture of disbelief, awe, and..._ yes _, even horror greets her. That is how she knows they are among those who found her, who know intimately of her death. A dead queen risen. 

There is movement from her periphery and Dany glances over to see Kinvara step forward. The followers of the red priestess stand in the corner like crimson shadows. A shiver runs down Daenerys’ spine at the reminder of her resurrection, but she ignores it, steals herself, and turns back to face the room. 

Before she can address the gathered assembly, one man breaks away from the rest. Dany’s eyes slide over the tall figure of Daario Naharis. How long has it been since they last stood in this room together? A year? She can feel the young girl inside of her reach for him, for comfort, for security. She can see the expectation in his eyes, in the way his hands twitch as if to reach for her, but Daenerys doesn’t waver. He holds her cold gaze for only a moment before kneeling, head bent. 

“My queen.”

She flinches. _ My queen. _The words reverberate in her head, spoken by a different voice, a deeper one. Dany blinks away the memory and watches as the rest of the room falls to their knees, chorusing Daario’s deferential greeting.

“My lords.” 

They rise, parting like waves breaking against rock as she approaches the round table and places her palms against the cool stone. A map lays out before her, a great sprawling scene of land and ocean. Her gaze falls on the jagged shores of Westeros. 

“How many are you?” She turns to Daario. A furrow rests between his brows at her lack of introduction, but he hesitates only a moment. His eyes slide to the map, to where her hand sinks into the inky ridges of the Wall. 

“About four thousand. The Second Sons have doubled in size since you were last here. And we grow stronger each week.” 

She nods, turning to the delegates. “And what of Meereen?” 

Another man clears his throat. He is frail, string-like, and reminds Daenerys of Pyat Pree from the House of the Undying. “_Mhysa_, we are grateful for your return, but Meereen’s soldiers must remain in the Bay of Dragons.” Dany raises her eyebrows, holding the man’s gaze. Tension ripples throughout the room the longer she remains silent. Finally, she asks:

“I bring you freedom and you offer me nothing?”

“_Mhysa— _”

She raises a hand, cutting him short. Anger flashes through her, swift and sharp. She wraps herself around it, lips twisting into a sneer. “Have you not profited personally from my sacrifices?” 

The man’s eyes flicker to the map. “The mother of dragons has already tried once to conquer Westeros...and failed. Perhaps she should set her sights elsewhere.” 

“I have no intention of conquering Westeros, my lords." Daenerys meets the questioning stares of those around the table, her voice low and even. "I have learned much from my mistakes and will not repeat them." A hush falls over the room and she laughs softly with a small shake of her head as if she is indulging the naivety of a child. "No," Daenerys continues, her lips twisting into a cruel, exacting smile, "this time I mean to burn it off the map. When I'm through, there won’t be anything or _ anyone _ left to conquer.”

The man’s face turns ashen and he chokes, “For what purpose, _ Mhysa_?”

“For justice.”

Silence fills the hall. Daenerys does not break it this time. She waits patiently, holding the gaze of anyone who dares to question her. 

“We will need at least a month to gather a suitable force for such a task,” another delegate reasons. 

“Have your month.” Daenerys spreads her arms. “Have two if—”

“My queen, I am not sure that is wise,” Daario interjects, a familiar concern on his impassioned face. “We should hit hard, hit fast, leave them no time to recover.” 

“I have made the mistake before of rushing in too quickly. I will not risk defeat this time. I will see all of my enemies broken before I taste death again.” Daario opens his mouth, but Daenerys continues, turning back to the Meereenese leaders, “Gather your forces. I do not care whether they are your own or whether you encourage the youth of this city to join the Second Sons, but you _ will _ pay tribute.” 

The man who reminds her of Pyat Pree sweeps into a low bow and the rest follow suit. The room empties slowly until only Kinvara and Daario remain by her side. 

“What will you do?”

Daenerys drags her gaze from the map. She considers Daario for a moment, then admits truthfully, “Head east. Find Drogon. When I return, you will know it is time to strike.” 

A noise of disbelief leaves him. “You’re going to search for one creature amid thousands of miles of land and sea? You don’t even know where he is.”

“That is irrelevant—”

“He could be anywhere, Daenerys.” 

Her eyes blaze, “I _ will _ find him.” 

Daario opens his mouth, then closes it firmly. They stare at each other for a long moment, broken only by the delicate sound of Kinvara clearing her throat. 

“You need not search, Mhysa.” The priestess intones, head bent. “Your dragon has flown to the Shadowlands east of Ashai.” 

Daario snorts, turning away, but Daenerys only frowns. “Why would he go there? For what purpose when he has never been east of Qarth?”

“It calls to him as it does to all his kind. It is where dragons have go to die. Their blood has long imbued the land with old magic.”

Dany ignores the bitter taste which floods her mouth at the mention of death. “Then that is where I will travel."

Kinvara nods, bowing, and retreats from the room, her red cloak whispering behind her. When the door closes and they are finally alone, Daario turns back to face her. 

“You cannot be serious.” 

“About what?” Dany’s brows rise slightly. 

“Ashai,” he demands. “It will take you months just to get there.”

“I told you, I will not leave him.” 

“You do not need a dragon to sack Westeros—” 

She snarls, “He is _ essential_.” 

“But he is not here. You waste valuable time for a fool’s errand—”

“I will not leave him,” Dany bites out each word, stalking closer until Daario towers over her. Her voice pitches lower. “He is all I have left…Believe me when I say I will not leave him.” 

“Not all,” the dark-haired general murmurs, a softness stealing into his eyes. “I told you long ago, Daenerys Stormborn, my sword is yours, my life is yours, my _heart—_”

“Stop,” she hisses and jerks away from him. He stalls her movement with a firm hand on her wrist and then kneels before her. Air whistles into Dany’s lungs. 

He looks up, determined, his eyes burning with a fervent sincerity. “You are my queen. Now and always.” 

Daenerys flinches. Her entire body flashes hot and then ice-cold; she can feel the blood draining from her face. Still, she forces herself to withdraw her hand slowly from his grip, to not rip it away as her skin crawls. There is a hole—a hole in her chest where the brightest parts of her used to live. Now…now she just feels numb, cold…_ nothing_. 

“I am no one’s queen,” she whispers.

He stands, arms raised in surrender, in supplication, but she only turns to stare out of the arched window. Daario’s voice remains in her ear. “If you are set on this path, then at least let me come with you.” 

Her eyes scan across the city below as she considers his words. Meereen sprawls like a great snake basking in the summer heat, the bright sun beating against the warm sandstone. By all rights, she should be sweating in this heat, but the air kisses her skin like freshly fallen snow. 

She turns, barely glancing at him, and when she speaks, her words are as indifferent and unfeeling as the frozen air which clings to her. “I sail on the morning tide. Whether you sail with me is your own choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m almost afraid to ask, but...what did you think? *ducks for cover*
> 
> But actually, I know I have been quite cavalier about the flames, but if anyone is genuinely concerned about if this story is going to trigger them (and, no, annoyance does not count), you are more than welcome to send me asks or message me privately on my [Tumblr](https://thefutureunseen.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Shout out to my beautiful beta, Jhennel! You are the real MVP, girl. 
> 
> **Song Rec:** _Landfill_ by Daughter
> 
> Until next weekend <3


	3. the ghost of you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, beautiful readers! Apologies for the wait <3 I got bronchitis after Thanksgiving which was...not fun to say the least. My hope is to update every weekend baring any complications in my schedule or my wonderful beta's.
> 
> **FYI:** this chapter is the reason I tagged Dany/Daario. Please know that their interaction while sexual is not supposed to be romantic and really just serves to elucidate Dany's state of mind. The journey to Jonerys HEA is long and angsty. Buckle up!
> 
> **Song Rec:** _The Night We Met_ by Lord Huron

Frosted air bites at his skin, nipping at his lips, his cheeks, his eyelids until crystalline flakes form along his lashes making the winter landscape sparkle around him in the early light. He breathes in deep lungfuls that hurt more than help, each inhalation like shards of glass scraping at his throat. Still, it’s the first fresh air Jon has tasted in months and he savors it. 

Somehow the wide expanse of white calms him, makes his mind—run ragged from the dark cell—slow enough for him to feel the weight of this untouched land. In these hills he can almost pretend that he is still a boy of sixteen, only the bastard son of the Lord of Winterfell trying to make his father proud. 

When they told him he was to be sent back to the Night’s Watch, Jon had laughed for almost an hour. Tyrion waited silently for Jon’s hysterics to cease, but eventually the small man asked whether Jon was indeed laughing or crying. “So I understand how best to convince you otherwise,” the Lannister had said. Honestly, Jon still isn’t sure whether the irony of his situation is humorous or depressing. He supposes that it is a bit of both. 

When he arrived at Castle Black, they had offered him the position of Lord Commander to which he kindly told them to ‘_ fuck off _.’ It was only when Tormund invited him and Ghost to travel North, beyond the Wall, that Jon had felt some measure of peace begin to seep in. The thought of miles and miles of endless white to lose himself in, to lose those memories which haunted him and the dreams which left his nights long and sleepless, was…almost enough. 

They had been traveling for two weeks now, stopping intermittently to hunt and scout. A few days back they found a frozen waterfall which was beginning to thaw. At its base lay a deep underground hot spring which had begun to bubble to the surface. The clash of temperatures meant the entire clearing was enveloped in thick steam. 

Tormund had smiled widely and declared it was the perfect place to begin building. Jon had taken one look at the frozen waterfall, so similar to the one near Winterfell, and began to walk in the opposite direction. He hadn’t cared whether the others followed him. He just kept walking. And when Tormund eventually did catch up, the red-bearded man hadn’t pried or demanded an explanation. He had just called Jon a ‘picky fucker’ and kept walking, the wildlings close behind. 

Now Jon stands at the shore of a frozen lake. A semi-circle of jagged mountains rises like dragon's teeth from the northernmost edge of the expansive body of water. A forest of giant trees—fir, spruce, and birch—borders the southernmost tip, the shore on which Jon now stands. To the west, the land begins to slope gently so that the forest and mountains merge, a perfect mirror of the eastern side. 

Jon watches the wildlings fan out along the eastern bank. Families gather and talk eagerly about where they will build their houses, all dreaming the same dream—the first wilding settlement, something more permanent now that there is no need to run. 

Children play at the forest’s edge, darting between the rough tree trunks. The wind catches their playful laughter and drags it closer. Jon’s heart clenches as the sound digs icy fingers into his chest. It is no more than a haunting echo, a whisper on the breeze, but the faint sound holds him with a vice-like grip, reminding him of a dream he once held and cherished, of a future that now lays buried in ash more than a thousand miles behind him. 

Jon stares harder at the powdered mountain range. He counts each ridge. Then counts them again. Committing the landscape to memory. Hoping that if he fills his head with something…with _ anything _ new, she will finally leave him in peace. 

A shout draws Jon’s attention to his periphery. Tormund’s red beard sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the infinite white. 

“Little Crow,” the big man calls from the eastern shore. He’s half his normal height at this distance, but Jon sees Tormund spread his arms out as if to ask, _ ‘what do you think?’ _. Jon inhales and then lets the air out slowly, deliberately. He nods. Once. 

Tormund’s face splits into a grin and he lets out a whooping call that spreads across the entire group. Jon’s lips twitch and he looks back at the mountains, at the long jagged spine of this land. He supposes this is as good a place as any to lay down his tired bones. 

The Sea Serpent’s captain assured Dany that the weather would be fair all the way to Ashai, that if they caught a good tailwind they could be there in _ half _ the normal time. His prediction lasted for about a week. Then the storm clouds hit and she found herself holed up below deck curled into the fetal position when she wasn’t vomiting over the side. Even the crew wasn’t immune to the rough waters. Daario had already cursed the ship, the crew, and even Daenerys herself after one particularly rough day that had them both puking into buckets. The push and pull of the ship was too much to make it out of the tight cabin. 

The Captain had given Dany his quarters and Daario had insisted on sleeping on a pallet at the door. It made the crew talk and if Dany could feel anything but a solid wave of nausea she might have been annoyed or amused or something that felt slightly normal. 

The foul weather lasted nearly a month, not consistently of course, but sometimes Dany wondered if it was the same storm system which continued to prey on their ship. It felt unnatural, as if the Gods themselves wanted to impede her path, but Daario was quick to remark on her newfound pessimism. And when the storm finally dies, it is equally visceral. 

Dany wakes with a start. For a moment she thinks they have arrived; she can no longer feel the ship shifting beneath her. But when she makes her way into the eager sunlight, her violet eyes fall upon a placid sea. A frail wind catches at their sails, nudging them forward at a glacial pace. Daenerys breathes in the deep salty air and walks to the railing, staring out at the endless blue horizon. 

The expansive water stretches on for miles; its vastness seems to open up a cavern inside of her, an emptiness where her rage once simmered. Her mind and body had been so singularly focused on the sea, the weather, the incessant nausea, that she had not noticed the slow death of that ember keeping her warm…and now it is too late. It is gone. 

A firm panic swells in her breast and she searches the corners of the void inside of her and finds it as cloudless and empty as the surrounding sea. There is nothing. She feels nothing. She feels _ dead _. Her fingers bite into the wood of the railing, knuckles bowing out at a grotesque angle the harder she pushes into the unforgiving wood. 

_ He has won. _

Daenerys sucks in air as the thought hits her squarely in the chest. _ He’s already won_. No matter how hard she fights, how much she takes from him or, what she burns in her wake, he has already won. He has broken her. The lifeblood that once beat in her chest, the raw untethered emotions which sizzled through her veins... _ gone_. Even the anger. 

She just feels...lost, adrift, helpless. _ Alone_. 

Daenerys wishes for clouds, for rough seas, for that cursed nausea, anything that will distract her from this deadness inside. The horizon before her shrinks the longer she examines it. Her lungs seize on hollow air and her head spins. Splinters jump from the wood beneath her ragged nails. Then warmth envelopes her right hand. 

Dany starts, breath hitching. Daario flattens her palm against the railing with his own, slowly, deliberately, forcing each of her ripped nails to relax out of the battered wood. She swallows, blinks, and slips her fingers from under his. Dany’s hands curl into fists behind her back as she stares resolutely at a distant point on the horizon. 

“You know,” Daario leans against the railing, tilting his head to look at her, his tousled curls, dampened by sweat and brine, lay haphazardly across his forehead. “Westeros will still be there when we return. I don’t think even the Mother of Dragons can burn a hole in an entire continent just by staring at it.” Her brows arch at his light tone and cavalier smile. “You’re looking west,” he adds as if that needed explanation. 

“There’s far more in the west than just Westeros,” Dany drawls out, latching onto the lifeline he has thrown her. His companionship, his arrogance, it stirs something in her, something old and familiar. Perhaps it is just a spark of annoyance, but Dany breathes out, relieved. “Surely a man of your intelligence knows that.” 

“I never claimed to be a man of reason, Khaleesi.” 

“No,” Dany snorts softly. “I suppose your reason has never much extended past your _ sword _.” His gaze deepens and a grin spreads across his face. She looks at him for a moment, eyes narrowing in observation before they shift away. “It appears I’d forgotten that.” 

“It appears you’ve forgotten quite a few things then.” 

A tight smile drags at her lips as she leans forward, bracing her arms against the ship’s railing. He copies her movement. Silence drifts between them, broken only by the soft lapping of water against the hull. When Daario speaks again, the playful quality of his voice has vanished.

“What happened to you, Daenerys?” 

“You mean other than dying?” 

She expects him to quip back some clever retort, but he doesn’t. He waits, eerily quiet, as if he knows that she can deflect and divert and answer with pretty lies all day. Daenerys can feel herself walking the razor’s edge, that tightrope above the bottomless oblivion waiting within her. 

“Westeros,” she admits finally, speaking quiet words to the mirror-like ocean. “Westeros happened to me. I gave them everything…but it was not enough. I made them fear me, and _ still _ it was not enough.”

“The Daenerys I knew would have seen Death coming and laughed in His face.” 

“Would she?” Dany laughs now, the sound bitter and half-formed; it catches in her throat and escapes distorted, almost a groan. “I didn’t see Death coming. I didn’t even hear His footsteps until He was already at my door.” 

Daario grips her arm, pulling her upright. She stares at him, waiting, apathy written through every feature. His eyes flash. “_Who_? Who did this? Who betrayed you? I told you once that I would kill all your enemies. Say his name—just one name—and I will ensure he never draws breath again.” 

Her face hardens to steel. “Jon Snow’s life is _ mine_.” 

“Snow? A bastard born?” 

Daenerys steps back. She meets Daario’s piercing inspection. A dull ringing starts in her ears as she spits harshly, “A Targaryen. A _ fool_.” 

He opens his mouth, brows furrowed. “He—”

“Do you want to serve your queen?”

“You said—” 

Dany raises a hand, “Do you wish to serve _ me_?” 

“Yes, I—”

“Then there are better ways to use your tongue,” she enunciates each word, violet fire burning in her eyes. She holds his gaze for a moment then stalks back to the Captain’s quarters. The door swings open with rock of the ship. Dany doesn’t bother to stop it, inhaling the splintering sound of wood clapping together. Her body vibrates, beginning to shake again, tremble like it did right after Kinvara brought her back. She needs to feel something, something other than this frenetic emptiness, this vacillation between rage and apathy. Something _ good_, even if only for a moment. 

She wrenches open the cabinet behind the worn desk and pulls out a large bottle of amber liquid. Her fingers shake as she grips the glass neck. A soft click sounds behind her—the door being shut. Dany closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath, then tosses the cork onto the desk and takes a long, deep pull from the bottle.

Turning, her gaze meets Daario’s. He stands with his back pressed to the door, more cautious than she has ever seen him. 

“Take off your clothes,” Dany whispers, an echo from a simpler time. The silence stretches out between them, growing louder than the pounding of her still-beating heart. She wonders if he’ll refuse, wonders what she’ll do if he does. Her grip tightens on the bottle. Then, Daario pushes off the wall and the soft hush of falling fabric fills the small room. 

She twists, setting the bottle down to work on her own clothes. Her leather corset thuds to the ground, followed by the black gossamer dress. Dany shivers. But she has only a moment to consider the chill in her bones before searing heat blooms across her back as Daario’s skin presses against hers, the hard ridges of his chest sending tremors through her body. Her eyes flutter shut. A groan escapes her lips. She greedily pulls her attention to that heat, away from her surroundings, away from anything except the feeling of his rough hands grazing across her bare flesh. 

He spins her around, lips crashing into hers, desperate, hungry. He kisses her like he wants to suck the very soul from her body, like he has forgotten that she no longer has one. Her hands weave through his coarse hair and Daario gasps as she tears at it, pulling him down, closer, trying to remind him. He doesn’t seem to care. 

Daario lifts her, wrapping her porcelain legs around his broad waist, and stumbles to the bed. The air is knocked from her lungs as his full weight lands on her. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles between kisses, shifting to his forearms, hips nestled between her thighs. 

She stares up at him, blinking. She can feel the heat of his hard cock against her core. She can feel the soft sway of the ship beneath them. She can smell the salty air and hear the distant cry of a sea bird. Her vision blurs. A memory presses its weight against her chest, suffocating her, consuming her. 

Brown curls are twisted around her fingers. A dark beard scratches against her neck, tickling her. The light glints in grey stormcloud eyes. Those eyes which had worshipped her, had spoken of understanding, of promises, of a future still within their grasp. 

Jon looks down at her, breath heavy and warm against her face. A smile pulling at his full lips. A smile just for her. 

Dany gasps, struggling. Panic courses through her veins and she shoves at Daario’s chest. “Not like this, not like this. _ Not like this. _" Her words tumble out, frantic, as she surges up. Daario lifts his hands and twists to lay beside her.

“Daenerys…”

She closes her eyes, hands clutched to her chest. Her breath comes in heavy puffs. Stars dance before her eyes, bright spots which fade slowly to black. 

“Daenerys—”

“I’m fine,” Dany murmurs, voice hardening, taking shape once more. “I’m fine.” 

She twists, throwing one leg over to straddle him. There is a sort of frantic determination to her movement which she refuses to acknowledge. Daario’s face is drawn, concerned, but she seals their lips against the words which he tries to form between them. He cannot talk. He—she needs him not to talk. So she tries to kiss away his confusion, tries to relax into him, tries to _ remember _ what this used to feel like. Her teeth tug at his lips, her hands at his hair, at his shoulders, coaxing Daario until his earlier fervor returns and he rises up to meet her. 

Dany keeps her eyes open this time. She stares at Daario with rigid determination, tracking every line on his face, every small change in his expression. She keeps herself fixed firmly in the present, shuts the gate on her past, on the emotions which wait just beyond her periphery and threaten to consume her once more. Her body undulates over his as she rides him. She repeats his name silently in her mind every time she sinks down, every time his hands caress her back. A firm reminder. _ Daario_. _ Daario. Daario. _

When he shouts his release, she claws tooth and nail for the orgasm her body tries desperately to deny her. Finally it shudders through her, almost as much pain as it is pleasure, and she falls into him, exhausted. Her shredded breath ghosts against his neck for less than a minute before she rolls off and stares at the ceiling. 

“You’ve changed.” His voice is winded, but even in his breathless state she can hear the reproach. 

“So have you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Dany sighs, “I know.” She sits up and wraps the blanket around her body, before glancing back at where he has propped himself up against the headboard. “Thank you.” She means it. 

“Daenerys…” He leans forward, brows furrowed with uncertainty, hesitation clouding the deep brown of his gaze. Her name lingers on his lips as he searches her eyes for something. She is not sure what he has found, if anything, when he finally speaks again. “You know that I love you.” 

It is not a question. Dany watches his expression oscillate from open to guarded to angry to resigned as she remains silent, watching him. What does he want her to say? She supposes she could lie, but…she honestly doesn’t have the energy. So, she just nods. She has heard him. 

The floorboards are cool against her bare feet as she steps away from the rumpled bed. Her eyes fall on the open bottle. She reaches for it. Amber liquid burns down her throat as she tips it once more into her mouth. 

“What was he to you?”

Dany freezes, then slowly lowers the bottle from her lips and places it back on the desk. Daario is staring at her when she twists around. 

“Jon Snow,” he bites out the name like a curse. “Who was he to you?” 

And maybe it’s because her body is exhausted from fighting or because every part of her feels raw and weak, but something cracks open, this thing she has been burying a little each day. The truth. And she finds she is too tired to shove it back down. So she whispers sullenly, “Everything. He was everything to me.”

Daario’s jaw bunches as he clamps his mouth shut. He inhales deeply through his nose and turns away, body rigid. His head nods, even though he does not seem to be able to bring himself to look at her. 

She swallows, gaze fixed on his back. And as long as she’s telling the truth…

“Whoever it is that you think you’re in love with—Daenerys Stormborn, Khaleesi, or the Mother of Dragons—she _ died _ that day. There’s nothing left here to love. Please understand Daario, the only reason I’m alive is so that I can drag Jon Snow back to the Seven Hells with me.” 

He does not say a word. Not when she finishes speaking or after he finishes getting dressed. She sits in the chair bolted to the floor behind the worn desk and stares at the ceiling. She listens to the silence, then the soft click of the door swinging open then closed once more. Daenerys sighs, reaching for the glass bottle. Maybe with a few more drinks, she can pretend that the distance does not make her feel more alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Theories? Reactions? Your comments, short or long, bring a huge smile to my face! Got questions about the story? Come send me an Ask on


	4. all those things that we were

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Song Rec:** _In This Shirt_ by The Irrepressibles

They reach Ashai as dusk falls on the seventh week of their voyage. The massive city crawls along the jagged shore for miles, a city so large that even when coming into port it is hard to keep either edge in one’s field of vision. It falls across the landscape like a shadow; every wall, every building and hovel is made from the same black stone, the surface so dark that it seems to absorb any remnants of light from the dying sun. 

Dany keeps vigil at the helm of the ship, her violet eyes scouring the horizon. She can feel the tension grow like a thick fog as their ship edges into the harbor. Daario has one hand resting upon the hilt of his sword, the other deceptively relaxed by his side. Dany understands his caution; her own belt sits against her hips, a small comfort in the weight of the dagger it carries. 

When the ship is moored and anchored and the Captain has paid the docking fee to the cloaked guard, night has well and truly fallen. The darkness does little but emphasize the strangeness of this place. Only a smattering of lights illuminate the city, as if half of its inhabitants have long since disappeared, some great black void swallowing them whole. 

“And so we pass beneath the shadow,” the Captain intones gruffly. “And pray the Lord of Light grants us safe return.” 

The other crew members make signs with their hands and mutter prayers of their own. Dany’s eyes slide to Daario; he raises a thick brow, his gaze wary. _ Be on your guard _, he seems to say silently. She nods and tightens the leather belt at her hips as they disembark. 

The dock beneath her feet is made from the same obsidian rock. It seems to vanish into the night, a long abyss which leads to the shadowed city. She looks up and sees more lights wink out the longer she stares. A chill creeps up her spine. 

“Where can we find lodging for the night?” Dany hears Daario ask the Captain as her eyes strain towards the dark streets. 

“My advice? Take the first guest house you see. Don’t be picky. It’s no good for a stranger to be wandering Ashai at night.” 

Daenerys turns, “If we have—”

“Any questions you have can be answered in the morning. If you must walk around, then for the Lord of Light stay on the east side of town.” The Captain bids them farewell and good luck, before returning to the ship with his men. None of them seem eager, nor willing, to venture into the city. 

“Warm welcome,” Daario huffs under his breath. 

The two of them set off at a cautious pace. They only walk five minutes from the dock before they find a ‘guest house.’ It is a seedy establishment that offers both rooms for rent and for _ companionship _. Still, after the captain’s word, the dim light appeals more than the empty streets. 

The proprietor glances up as they walk in; Dany can only tell this from the movement of his head as his entire face is covered by a beaded mask. He withdraws slightly and speaks to them in a language Daenerys has never heard before, what must be Ashai’i. When they cannot answer he hesitates, then switches to High Valyrian. He doesn’t seem particularly pleased to take their foreign coin, but, after some negotiating, they procure a room and retire almost immediately. 

Their quarters are…sparse, to say the least. A chair sits in one corner, a straw mattress in the other. The bedding looks rumpled and oily and gives off an unpleasant sheen in the meager light of the only candle. Nothing but one solitary window breaks the matte black walls, not even a fireplace. Thankfully, the strange stone seems to retain enough heat. 

Daenerys lets out a short laugh when she finishes inspecting the room. Not because she particularly cares. She doesn’t. The bed looks well used, but she has seen worse...she has _ had _ worse. Her laugh is an almost involuntary reaction, a product of her wayward mind. Because for the first time in years, she thinks of her brother, Viserys, of how he would have _ raged _. The Blood of the Dragon sleeping in this hovel. Dany lets out another laugh, quieter this time. She wishes he could see her now, wishes Viserys could see just how far their family has fallen. The look on his face would have been priceless. She imagines he might have had an aneurysm and died on the spot. It’s a nice fantasy. 

Daario shoots her a questioning look, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion, but she only shakes her head and lies down on the straw mattress. It smells faintly of urine and other bodily fluids. Still, she falls asleep within minutes. 

The bazaar is crowded the next morning. But for all the folk milling about, the market is surprisingly quiet. Almost as if, overnight, the people of Ashai had made a vow of silence. Perhaps it is always like this. Perhaps it has nothing to do with the foreign ship docked in their harbor. Dany cannot be sure. 

In the daylight, they discover that the proprietor’s mask from last night appears to be less fashion than custom. Every man and woman wears a covering from their hairline to their chin. Some are made of gold, others steel or beads, and even more of rough spun fabrics featuring vibrant colors. 

There are no children in Ashai or, if there are, they are not allowed on the streets. It is hard to tell the age of the rest apart from the skin of their uncovered hands. A few women in red, priestesses no doubt, mix amongst the crowd and they too wear jeweled masks. 

Dany feels naked. Like every hidden face is staring into her soul, unencumbered. She pushes the discomfort down and follows Daario as he moves swiftly between the stalls, leading her to a merchant at the far end of the bazaar. 

“_ Greetings, friend _,” Daario murmurs in High Valyrian, the phrase Dany taught him this morning. His pronunciation is clumsy, faltering, but intelligible, and he switches to the common tongue with a half-hearted smile. “We are looking to travel out of the city…”

Unlike others, this merchant’s mask has no eye-holes; it a simple sheath of iridescent fabric which obscures his features entirely. The only indication that the man has understood them comes from the subtle tilt of his head. Then, “You wish to go to Vaes Dothrak? There is a caravan leaving tomorrow.”

“No,” Dany steps from behind Daario. “We wish to go into the shadowlands.” 

The merchant becomes very still then straightens to his full height. “The shadowlands are not for you.” 

Daenerys smiles coldly, then speaks in High Valyrian, _ “I am not asking for your opinion, sir. I am only asking for the way.” _

His head inclines to the side, almost like an adder waiting to strike. He is examining her. Daenerys knows it though she cannot see his eyes. The sensation of being watched crawls up her spine, raising the hair on the back of her neck. Whatever he finds seems to please him enough to offer more information. 

“Only shadow binders dare wander through the Mountains of Morn. And even they will not go near Stygai.” 

Daario frowns. “Stygai?”

“The city of corpses.” 

“Charming,” her General mutters, turning. “I’m beginning to think this was a very bad idea, Khaleesi.” 

Daenerys ignores him. “Where is this city of corpses?” 

This time the merchant only hesitates a moment. “The Vale of Shadows. A place where no man dares enter.” His tone is brittle, laced with caution. “Demons roam freely there and some even believe there are dragons.” 

“Then it is fortunate that I am no man.”

“You are a fool to seek Stygai,” the merchant’s voice twists harshly. His hand cinches around her wrist as if he might keep her there. The skin stretched across his bones is weathered and faded from age. She can feel Daario tense beside her, hears the sliding of metal as he prepares to pull free his sword. Daenerys raises her free hand to stop him without taking her gaze from the merchant. Her violet eyes pierce where the man’s own should be. 

“No,” her lips twist upward. “I am the mother of dragons.” 

The merchant’s hand recoils as if she has scorched him. Daenerys smiles coldly and turns, walking back into the center of the bazaar. Daario jogs to catch up with her. 

“Mother of dragons? I thought you said—”

“Shut up,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

He chuckles, “You always did have a flair for the dramatic.” 

It takes them less than an hour to buy supplies for the journey; Daenerys procures water, preserved fish and hard bread that will probably break her teeth before it nourishes her and Daario returns with two grey horses. Daenerys takes a breath, then looks away. 

“We only need one.” 

“Two,” he counters, gesturing between them. “One for you. One for me.” 

“_ One _,” Dany responds just as evenly. “You’re not coming.” 

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“The hell I did—”

“Daario,” she interrupts him, trying to make her voice gentler than she feels. “I need you here. Protecting my back.” He starts to protest, but she pushes on. “If this goes sideways, I need you to have our exit strategy.” 

“We won’t need one if you’re dead,” he snaps. 

She steps forward and places a hand on his chest, lightly, so that there is still the thinnest layer of air between them. “I’m a Targaryen. I’m inherently suited to this task.”

“Do you have a weapon?”

Dany shifts the fluid material of her cloak to reveal the dagger which gleams against her leather belt. Jon’s dagger. The same one he plunged into her heart. 

Daario’s eyebrows shoot up, “You have a strange sense of irony, my queen.” 

“I like to call it forethought.” 

He stares at her a moment too long, long enough for Daenerys to see the battle being waged plainly across his features. He wants to dissuade her from this mad plan. That much is obvious. But, how he will manage the task remains to be seen. 

Finally, seeming to accept the futility of his desire, Daario hands her the reins to the largest of the two horses. “Don’t die. Please.” 

She nods once. A promise. A parting. She doesn’t look back, not as she leaves the bazaar, not as the spiked gates shut behind her, not even as the city fades to black stone in the distance. 

  
  
  
  
  


Daario was right. 

The Merchant was right. 

She should have listened. 

She should have known better. 

She should never have come here. 

  
  


The first few days are lonely but quiet. Then the silence begins to grow like a festering wound, clinging to her skin, eerie in its encompassing strength. It starts to crawl beneath her skin until she starts at the slightest noise. She is never sure of whether the sound which brakes her reverie exists beyond the confines of her own imagination. 

The landscape seems to be made for such silence. It is desolate, bleak, and monochromatic. Grey shale monoliths rise from cracked stone roads which twist and turn into sheer bluffs or disappear into yet another dead end. 

She keeps heading north, or at least tries to, but the landscape never changes and soon she begins to wonder if she is going in circles. Her water rations run out after the first week. The food follows close behind until all she has is one brick of hard bread which she sucks on for its pitiful moisture and sustenance. 

The horse dies the next day. A rock dislodges from the stony ground and the two of them tumble ten yards down a sheer slope. The horse won’t get up. One of his legs is bent, bowed out at a grotesque angle. He cries, tries to lift his head, kicks with his hind legs. Daenerys paces beside the dying creature, unable to do what must be done. It is hours before she finally draws her dagger to kill the poor beast. She goes for the heart, approximating its location; it is a slow, agonizing death, an awful thing to witness. She feels hollow inside, whether from hunger or despair, she can no longer tell. 

Dany keeps walking. There isn’t a choice. She has come too far to go back. So she puts one foot in front of the other. Each step painful to the blistered soles of her feet. 

On the third day after the horse dies, she finally stumbles upon the Ash—a great winding river of obsidian water. It placid surface taunts her. She is so thirsty. 

Cliffs of grey shale rise like pillars before her as the bank of the river shrinks, growing smaller and smaller until there is less than three feet between the bottomless black water and the sheer bluff face. The rock wall overhead completely obscures any sunlight that might enter this place. The first day it is a blessed relief on her sun-scorched skin. The second day she shivers, bone-cold, stumbling along the shore. She only rests for the brief hour at noon where the distant sun overhead shines directly into the canyon. 

Her body protests each step. She can manage it, she can keep struggling through this shadowed valley during the day, but at night…

Daenerys huddles against the stone wall and listens to the wind whistle through the canyon, listens to the laughing, high-pitched animals call back and forth to each other, listens to the weak beating of her own heart. Everything is bathed in an eerie green light, given off by the phosphorescence of the Ash. The water which appears black and bottomless during the day, fairly glows under the cover of darkness, teaming with skeletal fish and long, translucent serpents which slither out of sight when she peers into the milky surface. 

She wakes on the fifth day, delirious, lips cracked and bleeding from dehydration. 

Water.

She needs water. 

It is the only thought going through her head as she falls towards the Ash and scoops the inky liquid into her parched mouth. She swallows three mouthfuls before the wrongness of it hits her. She gags on the stale, sulfurous taste, and heaves. Nothing comes up. 

She takes a few deep breaths inside aching lungs and then forces herself to drink more of the rank water. She vomits most of it back up. 

Her arms shake as she pushes herself up from the pebbled beach. She has to keep going. She _ has _ to keep going. 

“I have to keep going,” she whispers to herself with each shuffled step forward. The sun has already come and gone from the shadowed canyon when the hallucinations start. Her vision narrows and the yawning canyon fades away. Laughter sounds behind her and she spins, grasping at the shear wall.

Jon stands fives paces from her, his face twisted in a cruel, mocking amusement. “Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin.” 

“Shut up,” she hisses, her dry voice cracking as warmth seeps into her eyes. 

“I always knew you were broken,” he sneers, shaking his head. “And here you are, imagining things that aren’t real.” 

Her stomach drops. “It—It’s the water. I drank the water.”

“Is it though?” He steps closer, a pitying look marring his features. If there was ever warmth or love in those stormcloud eyes, it is gone. “You don’t really believe that, do you?” 

“You’re not real,” she whispers to herself, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re not real.” 

“Look at you,” Jon’s voice lilts, mocking. “As mad as your father. That’s why you both had to be put down like dogs—”

Dany screams, lashing out. His image disappears like smoke and she crashes into the cliff wall, splitting her lip. 

“Pathetic.” 

She whirls around. Sansa stands behind Jon, her winter-blue eyes fixed with judgement, the word _ ‘pathetic’ _ spat like tar from her cruel lips. And on Jon’s other side, Arya flanks him. The younger wolf shakes her head in disapproval.

“She’s not one of us.” 

Jon nods, “You see, _ Dany _, I’ve chosen my real family. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong anywhere. You should have stayed dead.” 

Daenerys stumbles as the spectres vanish, their laughter ringing in her ears. Her breath rasps hollowly in her lungs. She presses both palms against the hard stone wall, feeling her way forward as visions bombard her. 

Drogo holds Rhaego. Her beautiful boy, living and breathing. “You left us,” the Khal accuses. “You had the choice to stay and you left.” 

“Have you forgotten me?” Greyworm asks reproachfully. 

Jorah stares at her in anguish, “I could have given you everything, Khaleesi.”

“You are no dragon,” Viserys sneers.

Dany’s chest spasms around stunted breath, around panic that has nowhere to go. She doesn’t notice how strange the rock wall feels beneath her fingertips, doesn’t notice how her hands now run along crumbling buildings instead of smooth stone, doesn’t notice that the ground has become cobblestone street beneath her feet. Her heart clenches and she freezes in her tracts as another spectre rises. _ Missandei _. 

Her knees give out. They crack painfully against the ground as she crumbles, helpless. Her friend stares out from dead, expressionless eyes. She only says three words. A whisper. Over and over and over. _ “You killed me. You killed me, Daenerys. You killed me.” _

“No,” Dany moans. “No, please.”

The words grow louder and then it begins, echoes of voices slinging down on her until the noise surrounds her, until _ they _ surround her, her specters, her ghosts—living and dead. The susurrus settles over her like earth, like being buried alive. She claps her hands over her ears, shaking, shuddering. No. No. _ NO. _

“No,” she gasps out. She claws herself to her knees. Her voice trembles, “I am Daenerys Stormborn… the unburnt, the breaker of chains…the mother of dragons. I know who I am. I—” 

“You are nothing,” a soft feminine voice breaks away from the rest. And it’s like staring into a mirror. Dany watches herself step forward and come to kneel down. The same blonde hair, the same violet eyes. Laughing. Amused. “You’re _ nothing _. Mother to no one. Queen of nowhere.” 

Daenerys shakes her head, swallowing. “I am Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, the Breaker of Chains—”

“Not anymore,” the copy mocks. 

“I am,” Dany breathes in shakily, “Daenerys Stormborn.”

“You are a _ shade _of who you used to be—”

Sound rips from Dany’s throat, an inhuman shriek she barely recognizes as her own; it tears out of her like wildfyre as she tries to drown out the cacophony. Her split lip stretches. Blood trickles down her chin. Dany pushes herself to her feet. Her body sways, but her voice is strong and steady when she speaks. 

“I am Daenerys Stormborn of house Targaryen. I have never been nothing. I am the blood of the dragon. _ They _ are my children. I have walked through fire. I have tasted death and returned. You cannot break me!”

Her words ring out through the hollow city of corpses. _ Stygai _. Daenerys inhales, shoulders squared, then collapses as the world around her goes dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Reactions? Theories? Your comments give me life and make writing this story so enjoyable. Feel free to send me an ask on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thefutureunseen) if you have any questions! xx


	5. there's no one to save me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY! Please forgive by enjoying this rather long chapter <3
> 
> **_Song Rec:_** _ Someone You Loved by Lewis Capaldi_

When Jon sleeps, he dreams of her—the way her eyes would squeeze shut when she laughed or how her lips would pull into that gentle half-grin when he said something foolish. He dreams of the softness of her voice, the hopeful lilt it carried when she spoke about the future..._ their _ future. He imagines himself awake, startled from sleep by some external noise, and he turns to find her lying next to him, her chest rising softly and falling just the same. The barest smile painting her lips. _ Alive _. 

Her eyes flutter open, almost as if she can feel the weight of his gaze, and that partial smile spreads into a fuller expression of warmth. She stares up at him with adoration, with love, and trust, and for a moment, the way only dreamers do, he forgets it should be any different. He surges forward, spurred by the longing in his chest, and kisses her deeply. He is a mad man. A desperate man. He ravishes her mouth, her throat, her breasts, anything he can touch. 

Her response is always the same; it begins eager, burning, her hot mouth nipping at his. Then, he moves alone; she falls still beneath him. Blank lilac eyes stare back, hollow, lifeless..._ gone _. Her face, blue and bloated in death, is fearsome to behold. And like that, terror and grief and memory flood him as one. He cries out sharply, pulling away. 

She disappears, only to materialize by his bed, staring down at him, at where her corpse lay only moments before. 

_ “You did this to me, Jon.” _ Her voice is haunted, accusing. It scrapes at his soul with a thousand sharp blades, but it is nothing, _ nothing, _ compared to her eyes, those soft eyes which are now lit by blue wildfyre. 

Jon wakes in a cold sweat, damp fur clinging to him as he fights to free himself. His heart thunders in his chest and he has to place a hand against its ragged beating, has to focus on the warmth of his own flesh and the chill of the air seeping in beneath the cabin door, before his pulse normalizes. He blinks, drags in a shaky breath, and combs a hand through his coarse hair. 

It’s not yet dawn. The windowpane near his head is still painted black by a moonless night. He exhales and lays back down. There are hours yet till sunrise, but his eyes refuse to shut. His weary battle against sleep is almost lost by the time grey begins to seep into the corners of the ceiling and a percussive rap against the wooden door startles Jon fully awake once more. The knocking repeats, louder and more insistent. 

“Little Crow!” Tormund’s sing-song voice is muffled by the barrier. Jon groans and rubs at his dry eyes, cursing. He stumbles about the shadowed room in search of clothing. When it becomes clear that Jon is in no hurry to respond, the wildling gives the door a swift kick and adds, “Wake up, you lazy fucker.” Patience, it appears, remains a firmly _ southern _ hospitality. 

“What?” Jon demands, throwing open the door while he struggles to shrug on a thick fur coat. The question comes out as a deep growl, his voice thick from another restless night.

Tormund just grins wickedly and jerks his head, “Come on.”

He almost refuses, just to spite the ginger, but one glance back at his rumpled bed silences Jon. It not like he’ll be getting any more sleep. Jon sighs and trudges after the taller man’s retreating form. 

The sun has not yet broken over the Spine—the jagged mountain range to the North—and the wildling town is still bathed in the grey shadows of pre-dawn. Town is a generous word, Jon will admit. It is more of a scattered mess of wood cabins, each slightly different from the last, built however the fuck its resident wanted it to be. They had tried to agree on where the roads would go, but that had started a heated debate which ended in two wildlings standing naked in the snow to see who lasted the longest in the harsh elements. The woman, Sylvi, had won, which Teric argued was unfair as she had ‘no dangly bits.’ They’d looked to Jon and he’d grudgingly agreed to draft a map of their town as he had the most experience living in a settlement. His plans had been followed…more or less. 

Cabins stretch along the east bank of the frozen lake and a large mess hall lays nearly completed at the heart of the village. It is this skeleton of a building by which Tormund and Jon now pass. 

They don’t speak. Well, Jon doesn’t. He follows Tormund out of town and up into the Spine as the ginger hums to himself. By the time the sun peaks above the stony teeth of the mountain range, the humming has turned into a rather bawdy song about big-breasted, giant women. 

_ “Bury my face in her pink, pillowy—” _

Jon snorts and stops beyond a copse of tall pines. “Is there a point to this tour or did you just want to annoy me?”

“Breathe, little crow. Smell the fresh air,” Tormund grins, spreading his arms wide. “Let it lift your spirits.” 

“My spirits are just fine. It’s your singing that’s the problem,” Jon grumbles. “Anything worth hunting will be miles away by now.” 

“Ah, but not if we’re downwind.” Tormund touches a finger to his nose and points at the lake far below. “See there?”

“What am I looking for?”

“Elk. A herd of them. By the north shore.” Jon squints down into the valley. Sure enough, a group of animals grazes slowly along the edge of the lake. Tormund whistles softly. “I’ve never seen so many.”

“What are they eating?”

The wildling shrugs and then gestures for Jon to follow. The two pick their way down towards the herd, their footsteps muffled by the freshly fallen powder. When they are only fifteen yards away, the foliage thins out and they are forced to crouch behind a large bush or risk being spotted. Jon stares at the plant, frowning, unsure as to why it has suddenly captured his attention. Few leaves adorn its pale sun-bleached branches. It is largely unremarkable and yet… one solitary bud shoots from a withered branch, a pale yellow blossom just beginning to open. 

A sharp cry rings out and Jon tears his gaze away from the new life. Panic swirls through the heard for a moment and then they break away, running south along the western bank. Only one buck remains, an arrow protruding from the brown fur at its neck. Tormund lowers his bow and Jon follows him out onto the snowy shore, his own weapon limp by his side. 

“Finish it,” the red-haired man nods towards the struggling animal. “I’ll find branches to make a sled.” 

Jon hesitates for the briefest moment then nods. His footsteps drag along the wet ground. The animal emits a high-pitched keening cry at his approach; the sound lodges solidly in Jon’s chest. He exhales, drawing a dagger from his belt, and kneels at the animal’s head. 

One large brown eye stares up at him, fear and pain as stark as the blood which stains the pale snow crimson. The handle of the dagger bites into Jon’s palm. He grips it tighter, swallowing. He breathes in, breathes out. His hand trembles. 

He knows where to plunge the knife, knows where to make it quick and...less agonizing. He stares at the spot, at the umber fur, and wills himself to do it, but his body will not obey. His mind shouts and his hands shake until he drops the weapon onto the powdered ground and sits back on his heels, breathing hard. He closes his eyes.   
  


A sharp whine splits the air.   
  


Then the sound of flesh tearing.   
  


Jon blinks.   
  


Tormund stands over the buck, its neck severed, blood gushing out in a quantity that makes Jon gag. It perfumes the air with a metallic scent that dissolves the quiet wilderness and all Jon can see is a throne room with four windowless stone walls. He staggers back and vomits onto the ground. It would have been less painful to pierce its heart. It would have— 

Tormund pulls him up, big hands bracing him. “Breathe. You must breathe, little crow. And _ live_. This…this is not living.”

Jon wrenches himself away from the wilding. He forces himself back to the elk, to its warm carcass, despite the way his muscles spasm. He drags the body across the branches the wildling lashed together and begins to drag it back towards the village. 

“Little crow,” Tormund jogs after him. “I know you feel—”

“How?” Jon drops the rig, spinning. “How do you know what I _ feel _ ? Do you know what it’s like to be told that the fate of the seven kingdoms and the lives of your family depend on killing someone you love? Do you know what that feels like? Have you ever felt the woman you love bleed to death in your hands, felt what her life was worth and how easily it dried on your skin? Have you ever had every memory of her marred by that feeling, that knowledge, because at the end of the day _ you _ are the one who caused it?”

“Well...” Tormund scratches the back of his neck, looking almost bashful.

“Nevermind,” Jon sighs and picks up the sled again. “It’s not you I’m angry with.” 

“What is this _ nevermind? _ Talk about your feelings, little crow. I will listen,” Tormund gestures to himself. Jon puts one foot in front of the other, focuses on the pure white horizon. The stubborn wildling seems to take his silence as an invitation to keep talking. “I only mean to say that at some point you will have to choose. Whether you want to live...or you want to die. Because right now you’re doing both and it isn’t working.” 

Jon shakes his head, a soft snort of disbelief leaving him. Sometimes he hates the simplicity of wildling logic. “I don’t think you want to hear my answer.” 

“Or maybe _ you _ don’t want to hear it.” 

Jon doesn’t say anything. He listens to the crunch of the snow beneath his feet for what feels like eons before finally admitting, “In my dreams…sometimes…there is a child.” 

“Hers?”

“Ours.” 

Tormund lets out a low whistle. 

“What if…” Jon speaks, putting words to a fear he’s had for months. “What if she…what if she was…” He can’t bring himself to say it. The words catch in his throat and he swallows thickly. 

Tormund claps a hand to Jon’s back, propelling him forward a step. “That is fucked. I suggest you don’t think about it.” Jon snorts even as his chest caves a little. He wishes it were that easy. Tormund continues, “I suggest you find a woman with large breasts and bury your face in them until you forget the dragon queen.” 

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon replies dryly.

They walk the last half-mile to town at an easy pace. Tormund recounts a tale of his first time with a giantess despite the fact that he has told the story to Jon at least a dozen times already. When they reach the outskirts of the village, Jon hands the sled to Tormund. 

“I—” Jon hesitates, looking south. “I’ve been thinking of making a trip to the wall...to see if there’s any news from Bran or my sisters.” 

“I’ll go with you.” 

Jon shakes his head, “Stay here. The people need you.”

“Does this make me your Hand?”

“You know I hate it when you—”

“Make way!” Tormund shouts, lifting the sled. “I’m the fucking Hand of the King Beyond the Wall!” 

Jon shakes his head at the big man’s antics, a frustrated smile briefly crossing his tired features. When he arrives back at his cabin, the sparse interior greets him. Though it has been a few months, this place is still too new to be called familiar. It’s not a home, not really. Just a space that he occupies. He doesn’t rush to prepare for the journey. He takes his time with each methodical movement. The sun is waning in the sky and his bag is almost packed when another knock sounds on his door. 

“Leave me alone, Tormund,” Jon throws over his shoulder, half expecting the ginger to barrel in anyways. 

“Tormund’s in the mess hall,” an amused, distinctly feminine voice calls out behind him, “but I can fetch him if you want.” 

Jon turns slowly. A tall wildling woman stands in his doorway, hood pulled back to reveal her pale hair and light eyes. Sylvi. He frowns, “Did you need something?” 

She steps into the cabin, “I heard it was _ you _ that needed something.” 

“You’ve been talking to Tormund, I suppose.” 

Her grin widens.

Jon shakes his head and glances skyward. “That ginger bastard has an awfully big mouth.” 

“I don’t know why you bother telling him anything,” Sylvi laughs. It’s a pleasant sound. Nothing forced or grating. It has a richness to it, a warmth. He likes it well enough. She stops in front of him and spreads her long fingers over the front of his woolen shirt. Her pale eyebrows lift slightly, green eyes dancing. “Half the town knows you’ve got blue balls.”

He snorts. “That’s not how I would have put it.”

“Tormund’s never had a way with words.” 

For a moment, they simply stand there, watching each other. Jon can feel the warmth of her palm seep into his chest, feel the way his heart speeds beneath her soft touch. Yet even as they share each other’s space, a bitter sense of longing swallows him whole. How much time has passed since he was last held, last touched by another human? It would be easy to just say _ yes _, to find some measure of peace in this offered intimacy. But it would be a cold comfort, the fragile limerence of longing for things past. So he steps away and her hand falls to her side. 

He gives her a gentle push, “Go home, Sylvi. I’ll be alright.” 

“If you change your mind…” She looks back at him from the doorway. 

“You’ll be the first to know. I promise.” Jon tries to smile, but the skin of his face feels taut, strained. She doesn’t notice. Or if she does, she chooses to afford him the dignity of his privacy. Still, the smile doesn’t come any easier with the door shut and the empty cabin surrounding him. Then again, he never thought it would.

That night when he falls asleep, he dreams of her again. His ghost. He dreams that she is wandering, lost amidst a sea of jagged rocks and shadows. He watches her scream into the wind, her eyes wide with terror. He feels the silent scream drag at him. He wonders if this is the Seven Hells and knows that, if it is, he will see her there soon enough. 

  
  
  


Dany’s awareness returns to her in pieces. Fragments. The first is the slow fluttering of her heart. A reluctant rhythm that pulses from her breastbone all the way down to her abdomen. Then she becomes conscious of the dry swollen feeling in her throat, how each breath scrapes like sand down her windpipe. Her eyelids slide open and she is greeted by solid stone, her whole front pressed against a roughly cobbled street. The skin of her lips cracks painfully as she tries to swallow. 

A groan escapes her. The sound stretches her parched throat. Her arms tremble, muscles spasming as she tries and fails to push herself up. 

_ Come on, _ a voice whispers through her skull. _ Come on. Do you want to die like this? With nothing? _

Daenerys cries out, struggling to rise, but…it’s too much. She collapses again to the cold floor. A sob catches in her throat and she shivers violently. She can’t— She can’t move. She can’t— Her eyelids flutter closed. Sweet numbness begins to creep in, soothing the edges of her pain. 

_ No! _ That same voice hisses. _ Get up. Fight. You were not brought back only to die here. _She chokes, fingers twitching. Each movement is a small agony. 

_ Get. Up. Are you going to let them win? Are you going to give up? Here? Now? _

Her head nods against the unforgiving stone. She just wants the pain to stop, wants the darkness to come back and claim her.   
  


_ What about the child? _   
  


Daenerys stills. The voice croons, _ What about the child killed in your belly? Who will avenge that death? Who will give your child justice? _ Warmth sluices through the pain, a searing heat in her ribs, unfurling. _ Yes, _ it urges. _ Use your anger. Let the rage carry you. _

She imagines that child—faceless, nameless, unformed; she remembers how the family she always wanted was ripped away for the second time. She remembers that she is a _ dragon _. She will reign justice down upon the wretched world...if she can just— 

Her body trembles, heat flaring through each taut muscle. A hoarse scream echoes through the jagged canyon and Daenerys Targaryen claws her way to her feet, blinking. She sways, steadies herself, and stumbles forward. 

The ground around her is bathed in shadow, yet no moon shines overhead, just thousands of tiny diamonds scattered across a velvet sky. It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust and when they do, the breath is sucked from her lungs. 

The ruins of an ancient city surround her; countless crumbling, shattered skeletons of buildings that once lived and breathed. The sprawling metropolis glows faintly with a dim green aura that reflects off of every surface. In the distance she hears the percussive sound of water breaking against rock. Daenerys blinks, stunned. She is standing in Stygai, a city made entirely out of dragon glass. 

She stumbles forward, letting the sounds of crashing water lead her through the labyrinthine city. Her breath is hard, sharp as she struggles from building to building, leaning against anything that provides support. When the noise of the water is almost deafening, so loud that she can no longer hear her own ragged breathing, Dany rounds the corner and gasps. 

A waterfall cascades down a series of pools to form a small lake at the far edge of Stygai, a barely held body of water which drops, disappearing beneath the courtyard upon which Daenerys now stands. The Ash flows beneath the very bones of Stygai, illuminating the glass city with its strange phosphorescence. She steps into the expansive courtyard, transfixed.

A low growl vibrates the ground beneath her and Dany starts. Her gaze drags from the phosphorescent green glow of the river to where the shadows begin to shift and a great, hulking creature moves into the light. Air whistles into Dany’s throat as an enormous dragon crawls towards her, a dragon she has never seen before, a dragon who does not know her as its mother. 

The creature’s white, opalescent scales shimmer and appear almost pale green in the strange light. It’s reptilian eyes narrow over Dany’s figure; it’s neck vibrates then stretches forward to let out a tremendous roar that rocks the ground beneath her feet and sends the Targaryen to her knees. Hot air eddies around her face, blistering across her skin, but all Dany can do is stare in disbelief. The fear coursing through her seems inconsequential in the face of such primal beauty. 

A low hiss emanates from the crystal city at her back and Dany twists to see a dark crimson dragon stalk from the shadowed streets. Two curved horns jut from its head and its barbed tail lashes back and forth like some great feline. The red dragon huffs out smoke, embers burning in its chest. 

Then another dragon climbs from the glowing water, deep emerald green fins run along each of its massive legs, looking sharp enough to cut through stone. Daenerys barely has time to marvel at the novelty as a fourth creature, this one so blue it appears almost black in the dim light, crawls down the sheer bluff face. She is surrounded. Hot tears slide down Dany’s cheeks at this impossible sight. She wonders if she is still dreaming, if she is dead. She thinks she might be, but…she can _ feel _ their presence, feel the unfamiliar signatures of these dragons brushing against her own consciousness. So she takes a deep breath and reaches back. 

The red dragon snorts and recoils slightly, regarding Dany with suspicion. She is a female, slightly smaller and younger than the rest. The blue has a distinctively male signature and the green presents a fluid mixture of both male and female energy. When Dany reaches her mind towards the white dragon, it is like stepping into pure light. This female seems to lead the pack, seems to speak for them, seems to be less guarded. It is only when she sees the image of a black, battle-worn dragon reflected back in this creature’s consciousness that Daenerys understands. 

Wind tears through Dany’s hair as the sound of beating wings fills the canyon and an inky shadow blots out the starry sky. Warmth seeps into Dany’s mind, radiating a familiar presence which grows stronger with each gust of air.

A sob unfurls in Dany’s throat. Her chest heaves. Drogon lands before her and the sight of him splits her heart in ways she didn’t think possible. Daenerys stumbles to her feet and runs to him, flinging her arms around his rough ebony scales. His body vibrates beneath her as he lets out several low keening mewls—half desperate whimper, half joyful cry—which sink into her skin. He nuzzles his head against her side even as she continues to cry fat tears of relief. She had hoped—had dreamed—but this, _ this _ is reality and it is so much sweeter.

Daenerys spends the night in the corpse city, curled into Drogon’s flank. And even though her body aches from hunger and dehydration and a million other little grievances, it’s the best sleep she’s had in months. She feels more alive, more at peace, more _ whole_, than she has since before Kinvara brought her back from the other side. 

She feels _ safe _ and for the first time since she was resurrected, for tonight at least, Dany does not turn to apathy to numb the ache in her soul. With Drogon at her back, it is as if some measure of her former strength has returned. She can feel that ember burning in her belly, the anger, the desire for justice. Now, they can set fire to the world. Now, she will never have to feel such inescapable defeat, such powerlessness ever again. She will fight and claw and burn her way to Jon Snow’s doorstep to deliver swift and crushing retribution. And whatever happens after that, whatever happens to her, it is a comfort to know that Drogon will have a place to return to, that he will not be alone in the world when she is gone. He will never have to know what that feels like.

When the dragon shadow falls across the grey plains, the strange quiet of Asshai shatters; bells ring out in warning to the city’s civilians and the heavy clang of metaled feet fills the air as soldiers rush onto the parapet. 

Daario is waiting for her by the black gates. The obsidian pillars pierce the sky and cast a long shadow over his familiar, lanky frame. Soldiers line the city walls and ward against evil as Drogon draws closer, landing sharply. Dany can feel the earth vibrate on impact, feel the quake run through Drogon’s muscles and into her own body. She groans and slides from his scaled back. She tries to keep her head high, but the weeks of malnourishment have taken their toll. Her knees buckle as soon as her feet touch solid ground. 

Daario strides forward and catches Dany as she collapses. His arms slip around her small frame and she has the sensation of being momentarily weightless. Then the reality of the last few weeks settles in and a gasp of pain shreds through her throat. 

“_Daenerys? _” Daario’s voice sounds distant, distorted as if she is listening from the bottom of a deep well. 

“Water.” 

It’s the only word she can manage before her world fades to insubstantial grey. 

The next time Dany wakes, she is lying in a soft bed, propped against numerous plush cushions. Someone has stripped her down to her linens and she shivers despite the warm air wafting through the open window. 

Movement in the corner of the room draws Daenerys’ attention. A gnarled old woman shuffles about, muttering unintelligibly in Asshai’i. The hag turns, brandishing a small knife. Dany recoils. 

“Don’t move,” the crone orders, her voice thick with accent as she speaks the common tongue.

Dany’s whole body tenses and her eyes dart about the room, finally landing on Daario. He strides forward as if called and kneels by her side. “Hold still, Daenerys. She has to get the last of the poison out.” His tone is hushed, cautious, the way one might speak to a frightened animal.

“She’s a witch, Daario.” The words scrape through her throat and a fit of coughing wracks her chest. 

The old woman stares at the young Targaryen for a moment then places her knife on the bed. She hands a pale ceramic cup to Dany as pain twists through the Targaryen’s insides. Dany hesitates, suspicion and experience giving her pause. She cannot see the witch’s face. Like the other Asshai’i, it is covered by a thin black sheet. And it is easy, _ too _ easy, to paint a picture, for her mind to drag up a memory of the last witch she encountered. Mirri Maz Duur. The two women stare at each other, unyielding. Dany’s chest spasms on a held cough. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Daario steps forward and grasps the porcelain cup. He sips it, makes a face, and then hands it to Dany with a stern glare. Satisfied, she swallows the liquid greedily. It burns her abused throat, then begins to soothe it, and finally the acrid, bitter taste of medicine registers. She gags. 

“Finish it,” the crone orders, turning back to her instruments. Dany does as she is told, but doesn’t take her eyes off the healer, not even to see Daario’s face as the old hag orders him out of the room. He protests, of course. 

“She is awake now,” the crone gestures to Dany. “And there are other exams to perform.” 

A door creaks open then swings shut. The witch picks up her knife and places it to Dany’s wrist. The blonde hisses as the blade knicks the skin; her violet eyes dart down and freeze. It is only then that Daenerys notices the spidery black lines which spread across her fingers and up her arm. She cannot see where they end and this time she makes no protest as the crone places a silky black leech on her wrist.

“Only a fool would drink shadow-water,” the old woman scoffs, her voice muffled by the fabric of her mask. “The water of the dead saves no one. You should have joined them when you drank it. This…this I have never seen before.” 

“No,” Daenerys swallows and her lips pull into a thin smile. “No, I don’t suppose you have.” She drags her gaze from the witch to stare blankly at the far wall, any feeling of life seeping from her bones at the reminder of what she is…of what she has become. 

Air whistles through her clenched teeth as the crone begins to press and prod her in different places. She checks Dany’s eyes, then her mouth, then the witch pulls back the covers to inspect the scrapes and bruises which mottle the Targaryen’s legs. The healer makes a clicking sound as she works, her disapproval evident. Dany can feel the hair rise on the back of her neck the longer she is on display. 

When the woman begins to press against her pelvis, her abdomen, something surges up inside of Dany like a tidal wave. It feels like fear or anger or pain, but it does not answer to any of those names. It is something deeper, something raw and primal and instinctive. Dany shoves away the crone’s hands as if the woman has burned her, ripped her open and begun to dig out her entrails. Dany’s eyes begin to sting and she blinks furiously. 

“I have to—”

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses as the witch moves to try again. The old woman pauses. 

“Fine, but you will have to stand then.” 

The witch removes the leeches from Dany’s arm, now smooth and pale once more, and urges the young queen to her feet. Daenerys grits her teeth together as she struggles to rise. Pain radiates down her arms and legs, but she ignores it, ignores the black spots swirling at the edge of her vision. 

“Remove your clothes.” 

Dany leans against the bed frame with one hand and unlaces the linen shirt with the other. With slow movements she shrugs the garment off, letting it drop to the floor. She turns and flinches as a low hiss leaves the healer. The woman’s eyes are fixed on a spot below her left breast. Daenerys doesn’t have to glance down to know what it is that has caught the crone’s attention. She has felt it every day since Jon Snow put it there. The skin is still puckered, still pinched and angry and red. The woman looks at her with equal parts horror and sympathy and the Targaryen does not know which is worse. She wonders if _ that _ is what Jon Snow had seen in her face when she found similar wounds upon his chest. 

“_Qyntar,” _ The crone steps back, recoiling in disgust. “You—you are not welcome here. The _ dead _ are not welcome here.”

Daenerys’ lips twist. “Finish your inspection and I will leave.” 

The old woman hesitates for only a moment before nodding and moving forward. She doesn’t try to touch Daenerys this time, doesn’t seem to _ dare _ to, as if in doing so she might become infected. However, she does ask Dany questions. The young woman’s jaw grows rigid as she answers in monosyllables. She wants this to be over.

Finally the crone steps back, satisfied. Her veiled eyes fix once more on the unnatural scar, but she says nothing. She only gives Dany a clipped farewell and a tincture to mix with water before she limps out the door, leaving the young woman alone. 

Daenerys shivers. Her knuckles are white against the bedpost, her grip like iron as she holds herself upright in nothing but a pair of briefs. The fabric is caked with dirt and dried sweat and it chafes against her skin. Dany discards them on the floor and then huddles back into bed. 

She freezes mid-motion, the covers halfway to her chin, her eyes fixed on the dirty, crumpled fabric. The thin linen of her underwear is stained, a few drops of crimson fading into rust. Her period. 

It has been so long since—she has barely thought—

Daenerys inhales sharply and her vision blurs. Tightness cinches her chest, restricting her breath. It has been ages since her last cycle. The stress, turmoil, and uncertainty of her life had all but deprived her body of its natural function. It wasn’t uncommon for her to miss many cycles. It had happened twice before. When she first married Khal Drogo and then when she was captured by the khalasar and taken as a prisoner to Vaes Dothrak. But now it has come back. One more harsh reminder of the life she will never have, a life that was ripped from her. 

Her stomach rolls and she shoves away the images which try to fight their way to the surface. Fantasies from a time so long ago: a house with a red door and a lemon tree, a symbol of belonging that had become the iron throne, a country at peace, and a home that would welcome her. And then…a man who loved her. Yet even when her heart had secretly dreamed of their union, of a true _ partnership_, the idea of a family had only ever consisted of two. She had not let herself consider—and now, knowing that it was not only a possibility but a _ reality _—

A harsh sob rips from her like the swiftly rising tide and Daenerys drowns in it, drowns in the sensations crackling through her skin. It’s too much. It feels infinite. All consuming. It—

_ If I look back, I am lost. _

Words from another time swirl before her and she latches onto them, dragging them closer. She counts her breath, counts each inhale and exhale, slowing down enough to peel apart each sensation and bury it once more. This time she shoves it so far down into that gaping void inside of her that she almost loses herself in the darkness, the numbness of it all. 

When she is done, her breathing softens and her eyes are dry. The only sensation left is that warm ember of rage that smolders within. She stokes it, nurtures it, holds it close to her heart. Her gaze hardens to flint as it falls once more on the blood-stained linen. She is hollow, cavernous, empty… so she lets the anger grow until it fills the void with consuming wildfire; the anger grows and she welcomes it like an old friend. 

The crone doesn’t breathe a word, whether out of fear or superstition, Dany is not sure, but no guards show up. No one kicks them from the city. They stay another week, waiting for Dany’s strength to return. Daario insists on it and when she argues he simply gestures to the door as if to say, _ ‘after you.’ _ She barely makes it five feet before collapsing into his arms. He carries her back to bed despite her protests. 

“The Sea Serpent left two weeks ago,” Daario tells her when she finally begins to recover some strength. “There won’t be another merchant ship for a few weeks at least.” 

“Drogon will take us.” 

Daario tilts his head, “Us?”

“Unless you’d prefer to wait alone.” 

His eyes glance out the window to where Drogon periodically circles overhead. He swallows, the most uncomfortable she has ever seen the general. If she was not so tired, it might be amusing. 

Daenerys sighs, “I need you, Daario—” His eyebrows shoot up and he drags his gaze back to hers. “For the attack on Westeros. You and the Second Sons will be invaluable to me.” 

“Ah, yes, the Great War.”

“There will be no war,” Dany bites out. “Only annihilation.” 

“Why?” He raises a hand as Daenerys begins to protest. “Let me finish. I know you...or at least I think I do. You have been cold at times, yes. You have been ruthless with justice, but this…this feels different.” 

“Because it is,” she snaps, eyes burning. “It’s retribution. Jon Snow took more than his pound of flesh from me. That country took more than a pound of flesh. So…I choose vengeance. I choose fire and blood because it is the only constant in this life.”

Her tone brooks no argument, but she doesn’t miss the sadness in his eyes. He only nods and settles back into his post, keeping vigil from the wooden chair in the corner. And when they finally do leave Asshai, it is at dawn. 

Drogon growls and flicks his tail angrily when Daario tries to mount, but after much supplication he is eventually appeased…though Dany does note that the dragon turns and dives more sharply than is strictly necessary. She places a hand against his scales and breathes in unison with him, feeling the bond between them yawn open. The ground beneath them slows, sharpens, as their minds merge together.

The dragon’s annoyance is palpable yet it fades as its borders brush against the strange blankness inside of her. It is odd, Daenerys admits, to observe herself through his eyes, even if only for a moment. It is like she can finally see the dark circles beneath her lashes, how her features have become worn and weathered. It’s not a literal image but an impression, a feeling which passes between them. It is as if her essence has dulled, become less than half of what it once used to be. It is like staring at a dying fire, something that once burned brightly but has been reduced to ash and smoke. 

Daenerys blinks and pulls away. She fists her hands into her thighs and stares ahead. Drogon’s wings beat against the air as he picks up speed. 

It takes them less than two weeks to return to Meereen. Dany barely notices Daario at her back; he is oddly quiet and her thoughts are elsewhere, tending to that fragile ember inside of her. Calculating. Strategizing. Planning and replanning her attack on Westeros. She will fly north, start at Winterfell. Burn everything from Last Hearth to Moat Cailin before heading South. The Second Sons will land at Casterly Rock and lay waste to the Lannister legacy. Leave none alive. 

No… She will travel with them. Let the full weight of her army fall upon the Lion’s stronghold. They will reign death and destruction across all of the seven kingdoms, leaving the North for last, leaving Jon just enough time to muster his forces, to wonder if he has a chance in hell of saving his precious Winterfell. Then…then she will decimate him. Yes. _ Yes_.

She doesn’t sleep. At first it is only a few hours, but as they approach Meereen, Dany lays awake at night, listening to Daario’s snores and Drogon’s heavy breathing. She stares up at the stars and catalogs the growing fire beneath her skin, that burning agitation which will not be at peace until Westeros lays in ruins. Only then will it stop. Only then will she find some measure of equanimity. _ Only then. _

Drogon circles over the spires of Meereen. Each beat of his great wings sends the wind into a frenzy, creating dust storms on the steps of the palace. Daario takes one look at Dany’s ravaged eyes and makes her sleep, refusing to call the Second Sons until she has rested. But she only paces her room, muscles taut like a caged animal; at dawn she falls into a restless slumber and wakes early from dreams she dares not remember. 

“Call the council,” she orders Daario when she finds him waiting outside her chambers. She eats food but does not taste it. Her fingers tremble with fatigue so she clasps them together behind her back, hides them in the folds of her dark velvet gown. Everything blurs around her, noises and rooms and people merging together, inconsequential, until she stands in the war room once more. 

“My queen,” the skeletal advisor—a mirror of Pyat Pree—bows. Daenerys does not bother to correct his address. Her eyes never leave the map, not even as he makes his report. “Two thousand Meereenese men have joined the Second Sons per your request.” 

“Voluntarily?” she directs this question to Daario.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Her gaze flicks over the ridges of the Red Mountains. “And the rest of your army?”

“Captain Lathere?” Daario turns to his second-in-command. 

“All twenty thousand are armed and ready. In a month, there will be enough ships to ferry the Sons across the narrow sea.” 

Dany nods, “Good…very good. And what news of the Unsullied? The Dothraki?”

The gathered nobles part as a young man approaches the table. Daenerys recognizes the Meereenese spy. She spares him only a glance before her eyes fall back onto the painted black castle of Winterfell. 

“The Dothraki have assimilated into Westeros and spread too greatly to be tracked with any valuable results. But the Unsullied…” he pauses. 

“Yes?”

“They’ve left. Sailed to Naath months ago.” 

Dany inhales; she swallows down the unwelcome emotion which tries to raise its head. She jerks, a stunted sort of nod. “Leave them in peace. We do not need their numbers. Not with Westeros still so depleted.” 

“It is true, my queen. They do not have the numbers; however, the new king has put priority—”

“The new king?” Dany gives a short laugh, the sound of it like a fist smashing through glass. “Tyrion Lannister no doubt.”

The room is silent for a moment, then: “No, _ Mhysa_. They chose the northern lord—”

“What?” Dany’s eyes snap up to the spy. 

He swallows visibly, “They chose Eddard Stark’s eldest son.”   
  


_ Eddard Stark’s eldest son. _   
  


The room distorts out of focus as a loud ringing begins in Dany’s ears. She breathes in sharply. Heat lances through her as, in an instant, all that hollow space within her heart is doused in fire. Maybe it is the lack of sleep or the frenetic energy coursing through her bloodstream, but Dany’s whole body begins to shake, to tremble violently. Her fingers clench into fists at her side and her mouth cracks open as a scream of pure, unadulterated agony rips from her chest. Crimson fills her vision and she pushes away from the stone table. 

He killed her. He _ murdered _ her, murdered the child in her belly…for _ power_. For the _ throne_. Jon Snow played her for a fool. He had fed her all she wanted to hear, acted the man of truth and valor and justice, while he used her to clear a path to what he truly wanted, what he had always wanted. Then he had disposed of what he no longer needed, disposed of her. It had all been a lie, even to the last breath, even the feigned struggle in his eyes as he plunged the dagger into her chest. Every moment, a lie. Every memory, a weakness. Just blind, stupid weakness. And it had cost her her child’s life. Again. 

Pain radiates through Daenerys, a sharp lancing fire that settles like molten silver in her lungs, her chest, her throat. Tears sting her eyes. She can no longer breathe. Betrayal and shame crash into her full force and are swept into a frenzy by bitter rage. She feel parts of herself slipping away, withering to dust at her feet. She is fraying at the edges, coming undone in every way possible. So she does the only thing she can do, the one thing she still has to her advantage. 

She reaches out with every desperate fragment she has left and calls to Drogon. _ I need you_, she tells him. _ I need you_, she thinks blindly. _ I need you. _

“Daenerys,” Daario’s voice pulls her out of the spiral. Barely. His brows are furrowed and arms raised like he might reach for her, but…there is also fear in his eyes. Though he tries to hide it, she can see that even he is afraid of what she has become. She can hear the wind hissing outside, hear the approach of flapping wings. 

“Follow me,” she whispers to him, voice shattered. Broken to pieces. “You will know the Westerosi shore by the sight of it burning.” 

Daario reaches for her then, but he is too late. She steps out onto the balcony and is lifted into the sky by large black talons. Drogon lets out an ear-splitting shriek that cracks across the sky like a bolt of lightning and the two fly west.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone still following this story? Let me know in the comments below! Hearing what you guys think is what makes writing fanfiction so fun!


	6. it's too late for holy water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Song Rec:** Anger by Sleeping At Last_

Wind whips past Daenerys’ face. The gales scream in her ears until she can no longer hear the steady beat of Drogon’s wings or her own harsh breath. Her pale hair twists into knots in the wind and she leans forward, urging the dragon to fly faster. His wings clip the tallest wave and water sprays against her cheeks, the salt burning her eyes, those violet irises already red-rimmed and wide. 

The reflection of the full moon dances on the water beneath her, but she barely sees it. Her gaze is fixed on the horizon where King’s Landing grows larger by the minute. Her heart hammers in her chest, an uneven rhythm that spreads throughout her body. The whistling wind dies, replaced by a ringing silence which expands in her skull until it is almost deafening. And as the city looms ahead, her body begins to vibrate with intention, with a rage so thick it chokes the air from her lungs; the pressure of it builds, pushing everything else out. 

Night cloaks her approach. A city asleep. King’s Landing will have mere seconds to worry, to fear for their poor pathetic lives before dragon fire reigns down. The city will lay in ruins before any alarm can be raised. She will burn them all, burn every last wretched person in this gods-forsaken land and when the city burns brighter than any torch, she will come for Jon, for the Red Keep, and all those who betrayed her. 

Dany’s fingers curl into Drogon’s rough spikes as they dip lower and swoop pass the first ship in Blackwater Bay. No crew sits above deck, no lanterns light the ghost-like vessel, and as she passes a dozen more—each as dark and desolate as the first—Daenerys frowns. A creeping dread steals into her bones. Her gaze lifts to the city walls, but no signal fire burns there, no guards dot its surface. Nothing. Just a vacant parapet bathed in grey moonlight. The hair rises on the back of Dany’s neck as she scans the tall fortress. Finally her eyes alight upon a solitary figure, a lone wolf perched upon the shadowed docks of King’s Landing. 

Daenerys bears down, urging Drogon towards the figure, towards the stone road which stretches into the water like the arm of a great sea monster. Drogon’s massive wings beat against the air, sending gusts of wind racing down the roughly hewn dock before he settles his heavy weight onto the edge of the stone pier. Daenerys dismounts, her hard eyes narrowed over the boy sitting upright in his chair.

Brandon Stark. She should have known he would see her coming, should have known Jon would use every trick to his advantage. But did the fool really think his crippled brother was enough to stop her?

The Targaryen prowls forward with slow, measured paces that directly contradict the chaos crackling beneath her skin. Her insides burn, as if someone has set them aflame, as if actual fire might pore from her throat the minute she speaks. And in that moment, Daenerys understands why her ancestors spoke about the slumbering dragon; she imagines something vicious and primal has cracked open its ancient eye and uncurled within her. Her footsteps halt only a few strides from Jon’s brother. She can feel Drogon at her back, sees his moonshadow fall over her as he rises on his haunches, the heat of his chest singing to her. 

Bran wheels his chair forward. The moon illuminates his ageless face, younger than Daenerys remembers. He cannot be more than seventeen. He seems…almost human in the partial darkness, just a boy. Then he smiles up at her. It is an odd expression, one that hints at some shared secret she knows not of. His affectless eyes bore into her. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Daenerys returns his smile with one of her own. Brittle. Like shards of glass. 

“Do you think you can stop this? Do you truly believe you can prevent what is coming? With just one word, I could burn you where you sit.” 

“But you won’t.”

Daenerys exhales sharply, almost a laugh. Maybe she will strangle him with her bare hands instead. Her fingers twitch. “Did you tell him I was coming?” she bites out, the words like acid in her throat. “Did you tell him what I intend to do to this cursed country? That I will not rest until every man, woman, and child no longer draws breath? That I will wipe Westeros from the  _ fucking _ map,” she shouts the bit, her composure fracturing in the face of his cool appraisal. 

“Why?” He asks, curiosity coloring the perpetual flatness of his voice. “What can that level of destruction give you? We both know you’re only here to hurt one man.” 

“Where is your  _ king _ ?” Her brows arch in challenge, but her jaw trembles on the word. 

Bran frowns, tilting his head to one side in an avian-like movement. “You’re looking at him.” 

“Where,” she spits out each word, “is Jon Snow?”

“North. Beyond the wall. At least he was the last time my sight found him. It has been months though.” 

Dany steps back, quivering. She pushes the air out of her lungs as her hands begin to shake. Her fingers curl into fists. The rage inside of her lashes out, spinning, spiraling. Beyond logic. Because somehow this is worse. The world has just kept turning. Her death changed nothing. It was meaningless. An afterthought. She hates him. She hates him so much it makes her nauseous. It makes her want to scream and sink beneath the waves that lap against the pier by her feet. 

The world is broken. It no longer makes sense. Maybe it never has. 

She laughs—the sound thin and vitreous in her own ears—and shakes her head. Her feet spin in place and she reaches for Drogon. 

“Do you not wish to know your fate?” 

Dany freezes, one palm pressed against warm scales. She looks over her shoulder, “From the boy who thinks he’s a bird?” 

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t say a word and his silence is like a knife splitting through her resolve. A toxic,  _ compulsive _ kind of interest claims Daenerys; it whispers with syrupy sweetness into her ear until she turns, arms crossed, and faces him once more. She is not sure why she does it, why she invites his scrutiny. Fortune tellers have never been kind to her. Still, she has come this far and as much as she is loathe to admit it, there is an emptiness in her that is begging to be filled, a question which longs to be answered. And as she stands there, a dead woman reborn contemplating a crippled boy, Daenerys realizes that they were right, all of them, each in their own twisted way. Mirri Maz Duur. The Undying. Melissandre. Her cheeks hollow out behind teeth which bite down on plump flesh. She waits as he appraises her. Brandon Stark. The Three Eyed Raven. 

“You have a choice to make, Daenerys Stormborn,” he utters these quiet words at long last. Very little changes about the quality of his voice, but still something curls in her belly—apprehension…dread, perhaps. “A choice, one that will affect your destiny and all of those who follow.” 

“You speak in riddles, boy,” she hisses, but he appears to have not heard, his dark eyes reflecting the lunar sky. 

“Three paths,” Bran continues. “Three futures appear with equal clarity… I see a lemon tree standing beside a red door. I see a house wreathed in winter. And I see a great battle—smoke, fire, and blood.” 

Dany’s face pales; she can feel the life draining from it, feel her pulse stutter and spike, feel the ancient creature within her dissolve into uncertainty. How could he know— _ a lemon tree. _ A _ red  _ door _ . _

Bran blinks and looks at her as if waking, startled to still find her present. He smiles softly. “Go North. Find Jon Snow. Have your revenge if that is what you wish. And, if after all that your heart still craves the iron throne, I will not stand in your way. But…,” his vivid eyes pierce her, “if you return it will cost you everything.” 

Dany’s face hardens, “I have already lost  _ everything _ .” 

“Have you?” Bran’s eyes flicker down to her belly and linger there, contemplating, waiting. Then, slowly, he drags his gaze back to Daenerys. A smile spreads across his face, one that paints his other-worldly features with a gentleness she did not know he possessed. “I have seen her. She is beautiful.”

The Targaryen takes an unconscious step back, air catching in her throat. Her lips tremble and the whole world seems to tilt on its axis beneath the gravity of his words. Hope rises swiftly. Painfully. It sears through her veins like molten silver, combustible and volatile. It’s too dangerous. It will tear her apart as easily as it now rips the breath from her lungs. So she crushes it...smothers it within that insidious reservoir of rage that lives with in her. She presses a flat hand to her belly, a stark reminder. There is nothing there but months of malnutrition brought on by an apathy that bordered on nihilism. Nothing but flesh and blood. No roundness. No promise of life. Her free hand curls into a fist by her side. “ _ You lie.”  _

“I have no reason to.” 

“No? Not to save your precious bastard of a brother?”

“I do not have a talent for manipulation, nor will in my body to deceive you.” 

“Neither did the red priestess who assured me that the child was dead,” Dany snarls.

Bran tilts his head, “You know, Daenerys, people err. They make mistakes. Surely you understand that better than anyone.” 

Her lips curl back as her whole body shakes; one hand presses against her stomach as if she can hold herself together, as if she can keep all the little pieces of herself from spilling out, all those emotions buried meticulously over the last few months. 

She can’t. It’s too much. It’s not real. If she lets herself fall apart, she will never be able to pick up all the pieces. She will just crumble into dust, into  _ nothing. _ So she does the one thing she has never done before in her life, the one thing she has sworn to herself never to do. Daenerys Targaryen, Blood of the Dragon, stumbles from the boy-king and heaves herself onto Drogon’s back. An act of self-preservation. She lies flat, one hand caught between soft flesh and warm scales, her fingertips digging into her low belly in a desperate attempt to keep this gaping wound from consuming her. 

The tears which stream from her eyes are caught by the wind as Drogon launches skyward. Daenerys does not look back. She  _ cannot _ look back. So instead she closes her eyes and tries to stuff each fragment of herself back inside, to somehow keep all the pieces together, to keep herself  _ whole _ . 

But…it’s like holding yards of unspooled silk—featherlight and hardly visible, all she can do is watch as each fragile thread slips away into a dark, thankless sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's everyone feeling??? Sorry for the short chapter! Next week's will be much longer xx
> 
> I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who has left lovely comments on this story. I know it can sometimes be daunting to start, especially if you're not used to it, but it is truly such a joy to read them (long or short, eloquent or key smashes) and makes me really freaking happy! I finally went back through the last five chapters and will be more on top of responding from here on out <3


	7. i talk in circles, i watch for signals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a much-deserved longer chapter after last week's short update! 
> 
> ** _Song rec:_ ** _ Mercury by Sleeping At Last_

She stops crying sometime before dawn, before the midnight blue sky gives way to pale pink and Drogon’s reflection becomes visible in the grey waters of the Northeastern coast. _ Nothing has changed, _ Dany reminds herself. _ Nothing. _ She has no reason to trust Bran, no reason to believe he was not feeding her the exact words that might keep his brother alive. _ It is a clever ruse, _ she admits. _ A gamble. _ But she will not buy it, will not trust it. She _ cannot _ trust it. 

Her cycle came only a few weeks ago. She had seen the rust stain of dried blood on her linens. It had been light, but…it has _ always _ been irregular. She has gone months without one before—nearly a year when she first married Drogo, then the few months of her capture and imprisonment in Vaes Dothrak, and again when she came to Westeros. Dany hardly noticed it anymore; her moon had become largely irrelevant since Mirri Maz Duur cursed her. It was inconsequential, insignificant other than as an indicator of her stress. When was the last night she had bled fully? Daenerys can’t remember. 

A chill sweeps down her spine. _ Dragonstone _ . Her cycle had come full force once, shortly after Jon arrived. She remembers now because Missandei had searched the whole keep to find enough soft linen to stem her flow. Dany blinks against the salted air, one hand pressed against her flat stomach. It has not left her abdomen since King’s Landing, not since Bran told her that insidious lie. It is not sentiment that keeps her palm flush. It is necessity, a reminder. She has to keep reminding herself that it is not real. Kinvara said she had been pregnant, but…the child was too ‘unformed.’ Those were her words. The words of someone she trusted, someone who had not betrayed her. _ Too unformed. _

Dany’s heart clenches at that piece of information, but she shoves the feeling away to focus on the facts. The last time they had…it was…the waterfall. Not even five months ago. The cold air had nipped at her bare skin then, as they clung to each other. She can still remember the warm hope which bloomed in her chest at the steady love in those stormcloud eyes, at the promise they held, an oath of safety and support. It had felt so _ right _there. In that moment. 

Unwelcome emotions rise at the memory, something once tender and sweet now spoiled and rotten from neglect and bitterness. So she quells them too, forces them down inside the fortress of her mind and ignores the slowly forming cracks. Her eyes burn so she narrows them and leans forward. Drogon beats the air beneath his wings, picking up speed. Daenerys does not even know where she is going. North. Just _ north. _

She lets out a sharp laugh and forces her hand away from her stomach, forces her mind to stop spiraling. Instead, she focuses on her rage at this cruel deception, another brick atop an already crushing pile; she sinks into the exacting pain of betrayal, a living entity which morphs into something violent within her. She turns it over in her mind like one would sharpen a blade against stone; she clings to it, worries it, submerges herself in it. 

Her eyes burn with violet wildfire as they fly past the wall and Drogon begins to veer inland. She can feel his distress through their bond, almost like a bird fluttering in its cage. She tries reaching out, tries to reassure him, but the more she opens up to his mind, the more panic consumes her. He seems to fly fast not in spite of her rage, but because of it. The realization tears something open inside of Dany; she is causing her child—her _ only _ child—pain. So she tries to bury her rage like all the other emotions, tries to turn it off, to sink into that blank void within, to lose time and space and become numb. She feels farther from herself, separate, alone and Drogon flies even faster. 

When they finally see smoke in the distance, it feels as if hours have passed since the Wall. Drogon spots the anomaly before she does, sinking closer to the ground. A mountain range rises into the sky as they dip lower, the current spraying snow from the tops of the tall pine trees. The forest breaks with a suddenness that surprises Dany; it gives way to reveal a large lake frozen by perpetual winter. And on its east bank, a collection of log cabins surround a larger structure. Dany blinks, taking in the small village. 

Shouts pierce the frigid air as Drogon breaks over the treeline. People dressed in fur—wildlings no doubt—speckle the town like scattered leaves, a few hundred at most. Flurries of snow race between the buildings in great gusts, painting everything a stark white, as Drogon beats his wings and finally sets his massive body down. His jaw hinges open and a loud roar echoes across the canyon. 

They land a hundred yards from the village. Daenerys squints, lifting one hand to shield her eyes as the blizzard dies. Her fingers tremble, the only warning as tremors begin to wrack her body. Her heart thumps wildly in her ribcage threatening to split Dany open. She expects the wildlings to cower, to run and hide; it would be the smart thing to do after all, when faced with such a certain picture of death.   
  


They don’t.   
  


Instead they crowd forward, pushing each other to the edge of the village, necks straining and eyes wide...curious even. Daenerys draws in a slow, steadying breath, preparing herself. When she speaks her voice is as hard and unyielding as the frozen lake. 

“I am here for Jon Snow. Give him to me and I will let you live. Refuse…and I will burn your village to the ground.” 

Movement to the left catches Dany’s eye and her heart tightens. She swallows, bracing herself. But it is not the familiar head of dark curls and flinty eyes that steps forward. The hair and beard are redder than the sun and the eyes as pale as the sky. _ Tormund Giantsbane. _ Daenerys recognizes Jon’s friend, his wildling _ brother _. Dany recalls all too well how the man praised Jon for riding a dragon, how he called Jon ‘King.’ Her eyes narrow as he shifts forward. 

Tormund’s expression is unreadable at first, morphing too quickly between emotions to be distinguished, then it evens out into one of stupefied amusement. Like Daenerys is the best joke he has ever heard. He lets out a great booming laugh, startling those beside him, and begins to stride across the snow, directly towards her. 

“Are you too scared of a handful of Northfolk that you won’t get down from that dragon?” He calls, a lithe swagger to his steps. 

Drogon growls. His scales warm beneath Dany’s hands, but Tormund just grins. A consummate idiot. A fool. She can burn him just as easily from the ground. Her lips twist into a cruel, feral grin—more grimace than smile—and she dismounts. It is only as she tries to move her muscles that Dany realizes how stiff they have become. Even with the blood of the dragon flowing through her veins, her meager attire has left her exposed to the elements and the hours spent racing through the clouds. The black velvet garment with its simple leather bustier and belt do little to protect her, but Jon’s dagger burns against her hip, a reminder of why she came. 

A few wildlings shift uneasily as her feet hit the snow. She must look like a harbinger of Death to them, shrouded as she is, dressed in shadows with a black dragon at her back. Her grin sharpens, revealing the whites of her teeth; they don’t know how right they are. 

Daenerys pushes herself forward, ignoring the biting cold as her footsteps crunch through snow. She stops just feet from the ginger wildling and tilts her head. 

“You think you can scare me?” She asks, her words soft and lilting. “I’ve seen more in one lifetime than you can imagine in your strangest dreams. I’ve tasted Death and spat out his carcass for the vultures to pick on. I fear _nothing. _” 

_ Liar, _a voice in her head whispers, but Dany gives it no quarter. She holds Tormund’s pale gaze. 

“Bold words.”

“Give me Jon Snow or you’ll see how bold I can be.” 

He raises his arms out wide, “He’s not here, unfortunately.”

“You’re lying.” 

“You’ve been gone awhile, but surely you don’t believe Snow is the kind of man to hide. I’m telling you, he’s not here.” 

Her jaw grinds shut. “Then where is he?”

“Haven’t the faintest.” 

Anger radiates through Dany at his blithe tone. “You know that I could burn you where you stand. Just one word from me…”

Daenerys feels Drogon expand behind her, rising to his full height. Tormund’s gaze flickers up to the dragon then back to Dany. He shrugs, “It’s pretty fucking cold up here. I don’t think any of us would mind.” 

Her mouth falls open slightly, brows furrowing. A fucking fool. She scoffs, but before she can respond Tormund chuckles and jerks his head back towards the village. 

“Come on. A southern queen like you must be freezing.” 

Dany starts to protest, but her words are swallowed as a violent shiver runs down her spine. His eyes crease with amusement and she sneers, “I’m not a queen. Not anymore.” 

“And your little crow isn’t the King Beyond the Wall either. Come on,” he jerks his head once more and strides towards the village. 

For a moment Dany stands still, immobile in the quiet snow. She doesn’t quite know what to do. Her mind whirls in circles, pinwheeling between disbelief and distrust. In the end it’s exhaustion that makes the decision. She’s been flying for nearly seventy-two hours now. She needs rest. Drogon needs rest. Dany’s hand itches for the dagger at her side. Still, she takes a breath and then begins to follow the red-bearded man. 

Most of the wildlings have dispersed by the time she reaches the town outskirts. A few remain, watching her with a wariness that reminds her of arriving in Winterfell. However, there is no fear in the wildlings’ eyes. Curiosity more than anything else greets her. 

Dany’s breath catches as a few children tumble past—two boys and a girl. The wound inside of her yawns open and she rips her gaze away before it can consume her. She has almost reached the first building when a loud huff behind her blows snow into the air. Daenerys whirls around. 

The children are congregating at Drogon’s feet, giggling and petting his ebony scales. Air freezes in Dany’s lungs at the sight, freezes as Drogon shifts and then tosses his head in the lazy, annoyed way one might swat at a fly. But…his movements are cautious, aware. She reaches for him through their bond and his large eyes drift to her. Solid black. Bottomless. She can feel that he is slightly alarmed by the children’s familiarity, but that is all. He huffs again as if telling her to go, to stop worrying. She glances once more at the three younglings playing at his feet, the oldest no more than eight. A lump forms in her throat and she spins sharply before it can take hold. 

Tormund is waiting for her by the first cabin. He jerks his head again. A habit of his. “Keep up, little queen.” 

Dany arches her eyebrows, but says nothing; she strides after him. They wind through the village, their path leading as directly as possible through a town with little cohesion to arrive at last at the large building at its heart. It takes less than ten minutes for the wildlings to return to their daily routine, as if she hadn’t just landed a mythical creature in their midst and threatened to burn their village. 

“We’ve seen quite a few strange things ourselves,” Tormund murmurs, catching her expression. He pushes open a set of heavy double doors. “Though none of us have…erm, how did you put it? Tasted death?” He chuckles softly and Dany’s shoulders stiffen, getting the distinct impression that she is being made fun of. He continues, unperturbed, “You Targaryens do have a flare for the dramatic.” 

Daenerys purses her lips but doesn’t say a word. Her mind is caught on the wildling’s use of the plural: _ Targaryens _. So Jon has told him… Dany wonders just how much the giant killer knows. 

Tormund leads her through the echoing hall to a long wooden table. He thumps two men on the back. “Shove over,” he tells them, then turning to her. “Sit.” 

Dany rolls her eyes and settles into the space between the two men. They give her cursory nods, a sort of gruff greeting, and then turn back to their respective bowls of stew. Tormund sits opposite her as an older woman serves them from a large cauldron. Dany stares at the wooden bowl before her. Steam rises from the stew, large chunks of meat in a rich brown broth. She picks up her spoon and takes a small sip. The warm liquid coats her throat before settling eventually in her stomach. It’s heat unwinds something within her and her eyes grow dry and itchy. Daenerys blinks rapidly. Another spoonful makes her eyes fully water. She tells herself it is the warmth of the soup and not the hole it seems to fill. She scoops up another bite, blinking between each, and wipes her runny nose against the sleeve of her gown. 

“No vegetables,” Tormund says through a mouthful of food. He points at the stew when she frowns. “But,” he adds, “the North is starting to thaw. We might be able to plant some as early as next year.” 

Daenerys nods and continues to eat, not quite sure why he is telling her this. The wildling stays silent for the rest of the meal, but she can feel his pale gaze upon her. Appraising. Weighing. He licks his bowl clean and then raises his eyebrows in challenge as if he thinks she won’t do it. That she is too _ delicate _ and _ proper _. Daenerys almost laughs at the thought. That has never been her. She raises the bowl to her lips and wipes it clean with her tongue. Her own eyebrows lift as she sets down her dish. He should have seen her eat the heart of a horse. 

“I like you,” he nods in approval, a grin spreading across his face. She sits back, expression hardening. 

“You don’t know me.” 

“I know they call you the mad queen.” 

She exhales sharply; the possibility had occurred to her, but…hearing it is different. More painful somehow. She meets his gaze, “So they do.”

“And? Are you mad?”

Dany swallows, bracing herself, and leans forward. Maybe it’s the comfort of familiarity, but she _ needs _ him to hate her, needs everything to fit into its proper box so she can somehow keep holding herself together. Maybe that’s why she says it, voice low and lilting. These words she has not dared utter aloud, now finally breathed between them. “I burned an entire city. Thousands of people…women and children, their bodies no more than charcoal and dust. The buildings reduced to rubble. I burned an _ entire _ city after they had surrendered. So you tell me, am I mad?”

She holds her breath, holds his gaze, doesn’t blink. Bile rises in her throat at the admission. The first time she has let herself speak this truth. _ If I look back, I am lost. _ The mantra echoes in her head and her throat bobs as she swallows the acid burning through her body. 

Tormund scratches his head for a moment, then says, “I never much liked the south.” 

She stares at him, “You’re not afraid of me?”

“There’s no room for that up here. Fear kills faster than any conqueror.” 

Dany leans back, hands folding into her lap. Disbelief is written clearly across her pale face. The din of the hall swells between them for a moment as they lock gazes. Finally, Daenerys breaks it. 

“Where is Jon Snow?”

“What do you plan to do with him?”

She pauses, tongue pressed to her teeth. The question swirls around her head until she admits, “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. Maybe kill him.” 

“Fair enough.”

“So will you tell me where he is?”

He looks at her, eyes narrowing. “In the morning, I will. Best get some sleep before you make any big decisions.”

Daenerys waits, sure that he is joking, but when he doesn’t slap his knee or cackle at her, she sighs. “Fine.”

She follows him back into the frigid air and through the winding village until they reach a solitary cabin only a stone’s throw from the lake. It is slightly removed from the village, closer to the east bank than the rest. 

“You can stay here.” Tormund opens the door, gesturing her inside. 

She frowns. “No one lives here?”

“Not at the moment.” He stays in the doorway as Dany moves into the small timber house. She shivers. “I’ll have someone bring you a cloak.” 

“You don’t have to—” she spins around, but the door is already shut. He is gone. 

Daenerys sighs and walks to the center of the cottage. It is…sparse. That’s really all that can be said about it. A bed is shoved into one corner, furs piled high. On the far wall sits a fireplace with a layer of cold ash at the bottom. There is a chair beside it, made of wood—hard and unforgiving. And…no more. That is all that inhabits this small space. Nothing hangs on the walls, no knickknacks or personal items to be found, nothing that might hold belonging. The emptiness makes the air seem colder than it did outside and a wave of loneliness hits her. Hard. Taking her breath. The burning sensation returns to Dany’s eyes as she sits by the cold fire. She stares at it and a bitter laugh rips from her chest, dragging with it a despair she has tried so hard to bury. How many fires has she started? How many things have burned at her order? And yet…she does not know how to light one herself. Doesn’t know the motions or method to start a fire with her own two hands.

“_ Dracarys _,” she mutters to herself. The word is dull and lifeless against her lips. Her head falls into her hands and she stares at the grains of wood running parallel on the ground. A heaviness settles into her bones, weighing her to the chair like a lodestone. She is tired, so very tired. 

A sharp rap on the door makes her flinch. The noise is repeated and then continues with growing intensity. _ Fucking Giantsbane _, Dany thinks and stands, striding to the door to fling it open. 

“What—” Her words stall as she stares out at nothing, only the village sprawling before her. 

“These are for you,” a little voice says, pulling Dany’s gaze downward. One of the children from earlier stands on her doorstep, head barely reaching Dany’s waist. A girl. Dark hair and darker eyes with a face that cannot be older than six. The girl lifts her arms towards Daenerys, small limbs drowning in a puddle of fur.

Dany reaches out and gingerly takes the winter cloak from the small slip of a thing. A bit of white powder falls from the garment and the girl looks down, tucking a brown curl behind her ear. 

“I only dropped it once. Promise.” 

Warmth blooms in Dany’s chest so swiftly that it feels almost painful. Like submerging oneself in tepid water after too long in the cold. She blinks down at the young girl. “You must be very strong then.” 

The child’s face splits into a glowing grin, an expression as bright as the surrounding snow. Dany tries to make her lips turn up into a smile, something genuine and warm, but it feels awkward; she’s not even sure she still knows how. So instead, she kneels down. 

“What’s your name?”

“Bea. What’s yours?”

“Daenerys.”

Bea smiles, swinging her shoulders back and forth. “That’s pretty. Your big horse is pretty too.” 

Dany’s eyes widen and she lets out an astonished laugh. “He’s a dragon, actually…but, yes, very pretty.” 

The child steps forward and grasps hold of Dany’s blunt bone-white hair with small hands. “And your hair.” 

“So is yours.” 

The girl beams and a wave of longing washes over Daenerys. She tries to breathe as thoughts of her own child assail her, as she wonders what that child might have looked like. Would she have been more like Dany or like Jon? The hollowness inside of her expands. She stands, clearing her throat. 

“Bea…could you,” Dany hesitates, then: “Do you know how to build a fire?”

“Of course! You don’t?”

Dany shakes her head ‘no’ and then follows Bea inside as the child bounds through the open door. It takes less than ten minutes to get the fireplace lit. Dany tries to think of something, _ anything _, to make the child stay and talk awhile longer, but her mind is blank, overwhelmed, and when Bea waves goodbye it is all Daenerys can manage to just raise her hand in response. 

Alone again, she pulls the chair close to the hearth and sits. The fire crackles, orange flames licking at the stone. Dany watches the fire dance until her eyes unfocus on the red glow. She tries to remember how to breathe, how to reconstruct all of the walls inside of herself that have slowly begun to crumble. Because somehow Daenerys knows that if they collapse..._ when _ they collapse, so will she. It feels like the only truth left standing, this knowledge that at some point in the future, she will fall to pieces like shattered glass. So she sits in front of the fire and tries, tries and fails, and tries again to hold it all inside, to maintain some semblance of control over the frenetic swirling miasma. Eventually, her body refuses and exhaustion settles over her eyelids. 

She stumbles to the bed and strips bare, curling beneath the heavy furs. Her mind tries to register the familiarity of the scent which envelopes her—the smell of smoke and snow and endless pine—but the fog of sleep has already settled and she gives in willingly. 

Jon doesn’t know why he stops here, in _ this _ place. Maybe it’s because he is tired of fighting, tired of pretending he doesn’t see her every time he closes his eyes. Maybe it’s that Ghost has started to fall behind and his horse—Eydis—seems to be near her breaking point. Maybe it’s that they would be hard-pressed to find another sheltered place to camp for the next ten miles. There are a million reasons to stop here, but he doesn’t make the decision for just one. He just... _ decides _. He turns towards the copse of trees, towards the steam which rises from the clearing, towards that half-frozen waterfall. 

Jon barely looks at it while he makes camp; then he can’t stop looking at it while he chews on his dinner of dried meat. It’s not really anything like the waterfall he used to hunt by as a boy. There were no hot springs there. No grove of trees. He catalogs all the differences, storing each in his mind as a small comfort. 

Ghost whines and drops his head by Jon’s leg. The silent man gives the direwolf a soothing scratch and the rest of his jerky supply, which unfortunately is not much. They only have a day, two at most, before they’re back. Plus, Jon can go hunting in the morning. He had seen at least five different herds of caribou on his way back from the Wall. Grasses have begun to poke through the dry snow in some places and a large flock of geese flew by him yesterday. 

He’s taken his time this trip. Not on the way down, of course. He’d been precise, methodical, with that leg of his journey. He doesn’t know what he had been hoping to find. Sansa had sent him an update on Winterfell’s grain storage, but other than that there was no news. Nothing from King’s Landing or from Arya. He wrote Sansa back. Something brief. He hardly remembers the words he penned. Their relationship has been strained for a while now and sometimes he fantasizes about telling her to fuck off and leave him in peace. Yet, every time he starts the letter he thinks of his father—of Ned and finds himself replying dutifully to his sister’s queries. He had replied civilly this time, like all the rest, and then he had just _ left _. Jon could have been back in the Spine over a week ago, but he had wandered, zigzagging across the North, looking for the Gods only knew what and keeping company with his ghosts. 

Now, he simply stares at the waterfall. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t pull back. He just stares, silent and brooding, and feels like a shadow of the man he used to be. And Jon wonders, as he watches steam curl into a diamond sky, if the fire inside of him had not died along with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the BIG one xx #TheReunionIsComing


	8. grace is just weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _**Song Rec:** I'll Be Good by Jaymes Young_

King’s Landing is burning.   
  
Smoke rises from the Red Keep, from the docks, the slums—the whole city reduced to a crumbling heap of smoldering rubble. It looks different this time. Feels different. _ Tastes _ different. She doesn’t watch from above, doesn’t feel her grief assuaged by the violence of her rage, doesn’t experience the swift upward pull of vindication. This time, Daenerys walks through the shattered, smoking streets. 

The air is putrid, thick; it stings at her eyes and her throat. She gags on the smell of charred flesh and boiled blood, deafened by the shrieks of pain and horror which echo down the cracked pavement. It’s a bloodbath, a city of living embers. Everywhere she walks, men, women, and children are screaming, rasping shouts that curdle her blood, silent shouts through melted vocal cords. And above all of this, the dragon flies on, spraying more destruction. As if _ this _ is not already enough. As if there is anything left to destroy. 

A ragged gasp to her left draws Daenerys’ attention, and her eyes fall on small hand stretching from the rubble, its twitching fingers no wider than a quill. Panic seizes Dany, and she falls to her knees, clawing at the stone, ripping her fingernails clean off in her desperation. If she can just—

A face appears through the rubble, bleeding, jaw partially caved in from impact. 

_ Bea. _

“No!” The word emerges half-choked into the chalky air, into the panic which consumes her. Bea shouldn’t be here. She isn’t supposed to be here. She is just a child. Just—

The shadow of a dragon falls over them. Darkness etches the flames of the city even brighter and makes the rubble at her feet feel cold as ice. And wet. Dany stares down as snow blossoms against the cracked pavement, as the stone buildings morph into log cabins. 

  
She is kneeling. 

  
In the heart of the wildling village. 

  
With Bea’s broken body at her feet. 

  
This is all she sees before a haunted voice whispers, “_Dracarys_,” and flames turn the white world luminous. 

  
Dany bolts upright. The fur blanket pools around her waist, and she shivers at the cold sweat which coats her skin. Violet eyes dart around the shadowed cabin, wild and unseeing. She can still feel the fire, still taste the odor of charred flesh on her tongue, still smell the smoke in her hair. She lurches out of bed and through the door, falling naked onto the frozen earth. She throws up. Once. Twice. 

Frigid air drags down her raw throat, a different kind of burn. She welcomes it. She gasps in lungfuls of the sharp wind until her heartbeat slows, and her vision clears. Frozen tear tracks pull at her cheeks. Her body shivers violently. 

It’s barely dawn. The village lies asleep. Quiet. Peaceful. For now. Visions of fire and blood swirl before her eyes, and nausea raises its gnarled head. She shouldn’t have come here. Shouldn’t have stayed. She wasn’t meant for a place like this. Wasn’t meant for this life. Kinvara should have just let her die in peace. Ignorant. Righteous in her grief. 

Her own words echo in her head, words she spoke just yesterday. 

_  
I am going to wipe Westeros off the fucking map_. 

_I could burn you where you stand. _

  
She sobs, caving in on herself, curling into the cold, unforgiving snow. Gods, she shouldn’t have come. 

Daenerys stumbles blindly to her feet and back into the cabin. Her fingers fumble with her clothes as she dresses, trembling. Her eyes fall on the fur coat Bea brought her. Dany should leave it, shouldn’t take anything more with her, but the idea sends a bitter pang through her stomach, and it’s around her shoulders before she can blink. 

Dany flings the door open once more and leaves the empty cabin. Her footsteps crunch against the white powder as she throws her awareness out into the ether, reaching for Drogon. His confusion comes back in pieces as if she has caught him sleeping, but it is only momentary. She feels him become alert before she can take a second step. 

Keeping the village to her right, Daenerys skirts the whole settlement. Her breath puffs hard and condenses in a cloud around her. 

“Leaving so soon?”

Dany flinches. Her shoulders stiffen, and she stills as Tormund steps away from a shadowed cabin and into the pale morning light. She meets his gaze. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Didn’t stop you.”

“I shouldn’t have come,” she repeats softly, shaking her head. Tormund opens his mouth, but Dany doesn’t wait; she continues walking, back stiff, as the sound of beating wings grows louder. 

“What should I tell the little crow when he returns?” Tormund voice chases after her. 

Dany lets out a short, breathless laugh, turning. Jon seems like a distant memory to her night-ravaged mind. Her shoulders rise, then fall on an exhale as defeat settles into her stomach. “Tell him whatever you want. Tell him…he was right. He’s won.”

The tall man frowns. He appears to want to say more, but whatever it was is caught by the sharp breeze as Drogon swoops down from the sky. 

Daenerys finds herself at a loss for words. She opens her mouth then closes it, turning. She pauses briefly atop the massive dragon. The thick words finally coming out, however stunted. “Thank you, Tormund, for—_ Thank you_.” 

And with those words released from the weight in her chest, Daenerys and Drogon launch into the clouds.

  
  
  


Jon crouches behind a snow-capped rock; his grey eyes linger on the landscape, on the place where the snow appears to be moving. A bone-white hare lifts its head, sniffing the wind. Jon pulls his bow taut. He breathes slowly and draws his elbow in, aiming. 

The hare stiffens then bolts. Jon curses as the animal sprints away before he can even take his shot. A large shadow sweeps over the ground, too quickly to be a passing cloud, and he straightens. A chill runs down his spine. The shadow had wings. 

His neck cranes back and a hand comes up as the sun flares, blinding him. If he hadn’t heard the great flapping of leathery wings, Jon could convince himself he imagined it. Part of him still wonders until a dark shape dips down below the glare of the morning sun. Jon’s breath catches in his throat. 

Without thought or command, he is running. His legs pump against the hard snow, and he slides down a ridge, heading back towards the waterfall, back towards camp. He would know that shape anywhere, in any sky. The idea of Drogon being here is absurd. No one has seen the dragon since—since… Jon slows, watching the distant shadow circle the copse of trees by the waterfall. Pain unfurls in Jon’s chest, and his feet falter. Drogon has less desire to see him than anyone; the dragon would likely barbeque Jon on the spot given a second chance. 

Jon’s breath comes in hard, rasping gasps. He should leave. He should whistle for Ghost, for Eydis, and just leave. Forget that he saw this magnificent creature once more, forget what he never thought he would, forget what he has done. He should go. He _ needs _ to let go. 

_ The fire died with her _; he reminds himself. Jon is no more a Targaryen than the snow at his feet or the clouds in the sky. He should just let go. 

  
  
  


Dany stumbles from Drogon’s back, hands tearing at the collar of her coat. She’s too warm. She’s burning. The fur falls from her shoulders, and she shrugs her way out of it, gasping. Her legs give out, turned to dust beneath her, and she crumples to the frozen ground at the base of a waterfall. The cascade itself is mostly solid, save a slow, steady drip which promises the inevitable thaw, yet the pool at its base nearly bubbles from its heat. The hot steam cuts across her face like invisible shards of glass until she cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot move. 

Drogon reaches for her through their bond, but it’s like touching molten lava, like being enveloped in a crown of liquid gold. She gasps, flinches, withdrawals. The panicked whine of her child sounds distant, distorted, as everything inside of her spirals, rips open, and spills out. All of the emotions she has kept so deeply buried rise to the surface and consume her. It’s too much, too great; she cannot feel herself. She is just pure vibrating energy. 

Her chest heaves with the force of her sobs; her body quivers as she crawls away from the warmth, away from the steam, and digs her hands into the half-melted snowbank. She presses her face against its smooth surface and breathes, breathes until she can feel the sting of ice against her cheek, until her sobs quiet and the tears stop running from her red-rimmed eyes. 

She feels drained, raw like someone has flayed her open and made all of the insides outsides and left her to exist with such fragile skin. Everything hurts; her mind buzzes numbly, and her heartbeat is painful.

Daenerys turns over and stares up at the pale, cloudless sky. She feels the snow melt into her clothes, into her skin, and she wonders why she is alive. Why the Gods—the Lord of Light brought her back? It all made sense with the rage, with all her righteous justice. Now…nothing makes sense. She is adrift. Lost. And she wishes, for a moment, that the Gods had left her with that rage because it was so, so much easier than _ this. _

Drogon lets out a pitiful moan and pushes his snout against her legs. A few more tears squeeze from her eyes as she places a hand to his scaled muzzle. 

“I’m okay,” she whispers to him, to herself. “I’m okay,” she repeats though she hardly believes it. Slowly, she pushes to her feet. Breathes in. Breathes out. Leans against Drogon. “We’ll be okay. I promise.”

They would be, eventually. Once they leave Westeros. Once they disappear into the unknown parts of the world. Travel west. Or perhaps back to Asshai, to the shadowlands where Drogon could be with his own kind. She would disappear, and finally leave behind Daenerys Targaryen; she would join the crew of a ship and forge a new destiny for herself. It was the only way. 

“The only way,” she murmurs into Drogon’s side. Her chapped lips scraping against rough scales. She exhales and grasps onto Drogon, muscles tensing, prepared to drag herself back onto the massive animal. Then she hears it—snow crunching beneath slow, heavy footfalls. 

A twig snaps. 

Daenerys turns slowly. Her heart stutters, clenches.

_ Jon. _

He stands only a few yards from her, his face whiter than the snow at his feet. Stormcloud eyes wide, filled with something she cannot decipher. Horror? Pain? Fear? Perhaps it is all three. Her stomach turns. She had given up on finding her traitorous lover, and now here he is, standing on the edge of this clearing. Physical. Real. Corporeal in every sense of the word. And, oh, how she _ hates _him. 

He moves, just a step, one step, and she can feel it. She can feel all of her walls rising from the ashes, reconstructing themselves into a fortress of impenetrable steel. Her jaw cinches shut, and her eyes turn as sharp as the blade strapped to her side. Drogon senses the shift and curls around her, his neck stretching forward. His massive jaw hinges open, and he lets out a bellow that shakes the frost from the trees. 

The force of it sends Jon back a step. A white wolf with one ear paws forward, growling, but Jon places a hand out to stop the creature. Then his fingers slowly unbuckle the belt at his side. His sword falls to the ground with a soft thud. He raises his hands, palms exposed, and takes another step forward. Drogon roars. 

Jon pauses. His eyes flicker to Daenerys, meeting her gaze. “I’m unarmed.” 

Her smile is brittle. “No daggers?”

“I am unarmed,” he repeats with another cautious step further into the clearing. 

“Fool me once.”

“Dany—”

“Don’t,” she bites out the word, emotion unfurling in her breast. “Don’t say my name in that familiar way. Don’t say it like it _ means _ anything to you.” 

He shakes his head, striding forward. He must have a death wish.

“Dany, I—”

“That’s far enough,” she orders, her voice like ice. He stands only a spear’s length from her now. She doesn’t know how he managed to close the distance between them so quickly. She shifts back into Drogon, and Jon watches the movement, his silver eyes never leaving her. “What do you want, Jon?”

“What do I—” he exhales sharply, running a hand through his tangled hair. It’s grown longer since she last saw him. She shoves that unwelcome fact aside. He stares at her, expression almost wild. “How…how are you standing here?”

She snorts. “Surely you know the _ ‘how’ _ better than anyone. You should have burned my body if you didn’t want to see me again.” Her voice becomes acerbic, almost lilting, “Are you here to finish the job?”

“I thought you were—I thought I had—”

“Killed me? You did.” 

Something akin to agony twists his features, and it gives her a sick sort of pleasure. To see him like this. To see him in pain. He steps forward, and fear washes through her, dousing any satisfaction. He is too close. The terror must show because he freezes and steps back, hands rising again. 

“I said that’s far enough,” she whispers. 

Jon nods once. His hands fist at his side, clenching and unclenching in that clear tell. He always does this when he is at a loss for what to say, and Dany imagines she can see his jaw working over the silent words. Silence thunders between them as loudly as her erratic pulse. Finally, he falls still, and the words pour out of him. “I’m sorry, Dany. I’m so sorry.”

“For which part? Throwing your obvious disgust in my face or stabbing me in the heart?” 

“All of it.” 

Her brows pinch together. “You’re only sorry because I am standing here. Go back to your little kingdom of wildlings and grow fat and old, knowing that you saved Westeros, that you’re the big honorable _ hero _ you’ve always wanted to be.”

The blood drains from Jon’s face at the mention of the wildling village. He straightens, softness leaving his grey eyes. “What did you do?” 

The question hits her squarely in the chest. A sharp barb with poison thorns. She feels herself spiraling again, feels the void yawning open. Daenerys clenches her hands into fists and hisses spitefully, “I burned it. I burned every single one of them.” 

Rage sweeps over his features, and he begins to shake. His eyes darken with anger as he starts forward. Dany tilts her chin up, unblinking. Her whole body vibrates the closer he gets, and she cannot tell whether it's her fractured mind or Drogon’s growl which causes it. Jon’s gaze burns as he looks down at her, searching her face, brows furrowing.

“You’re lying,” he spits out. 

She laughs sharply, “Yes, but we both know you believed it…even just for a moment. Bow before your mad queen, Lord Snow.” 

“Stop it.”

Dany doesn’t stop. She’s already falling. The words rush out of her, a dam finally breaking beneath too much pressure. “Bow before the tyrant Daenerys Targaryen, or you’ll pay the price. She’ll burn you and laugh as you scream. She takes no prisoners and murders children in their mothers’ arms and has no love in her heart. She cares for _ nothing _,” her voice breaks, splits in half, but she pushes on, “and no one. She brings death and destruction wherever she goes and all who follow her fall victim to her power—” 

“Dany,” Jon reaches for her. “Dany, stop. Stop!”

She recoils from his embrace. “Don’t touch me!” Liquid drips from her chin, and it is only as the tears splash onto her chest that Daenerys realizes she is crying. “Do you know how long I’ve imagined this moment? Facing you? Making you pay for what you’d done,” her voice is only a shredded whisper now. “What you took from me.” She forces out a sharp laugh, brushing the tears away. “I was going to burn the whole of Westeros to the ground, save Winterfell for last. And then, when you knew, when I could look you in the eyes and see the horror dawn on your face, then I would plunge this dagger into your heart.” She draws the cursed weapon from her hip. Jon takes a step back, recognition sweeping across his features. “So, you see,” she smiles bitterly through her tears. “I’m everything they always said I would be, everything you feared.” 

“You’re not,” Jon murmurs. 

“Isn’t that why you killed me?”

He looks lost at that. “I thought…I thought I was saving the world. I thought…” he falls silent. 

“That’s the same thing though, isn’t it?”

“You _ killed _ all those people. Innocent people.”

She feels stripped open, laid bare at his words. They are true, and it crushes her. Anger rises that he can still make her feel so little, so beholden to him. She latches onto it. “You _ betrayed _ me.”

“I know!” Jon’s voice is raw with emotion. “And I have hated myself for it. But you betrayed _ us, _ Dany. You betrayed _ me _ when you burned that city, knowing it was something I could never forgive.”

She steps back as if he has physically slapped her. She doesn’t need his forgiveness. She doesn’t deserve it, and neither does he. He is nothing to her. Nothing. 

Her lips curl up, “I know what I have done, the monster that I am, but you will hide behind your moral righteousness until the day you die. I was grieving. I reached out to you for a lifeline when everything else around me was sinking. I had lost two of my children, my best friend, my closest advisor—the man who had kept me safe since I was just a girl. I was _ drowning _ .” She meets his splintered gaze. “You didn’t have to want me, but you could have been there. A support. _ Something _. I begged you, and then you put a knife in my chest.” 

“Dany…” She can no longer look at him. There is too much pain vibrating in her chest. It’s eating her alive just to be in his presence, to remember all that she has lost, all that she has done. Maybe that is why she says it, why she drives in a dagger of her own. 

“You didn’t just kill me that day,” she whispers, fresh tears sliding down her cheek. “You killed our child, Jon. I was pregnant.” 

Jon exhales, chest visibly sinking as he steps back, lips trembling. His eyes are blown wide as if he is searching for an explanation, for some answer that doesn’t hurt so much. Tears slip down into his beard. He looks at her, pleading. “Dany, I—”

Her face hardens, “Goodbye, Jon.”

“No,” he surges to his feet, grabbing her wrist. “Don’t go. Don’t leave.”

“Let go of me.”

His hand falls, but this time he doesn’t move away. “Let me help you.”

“Help me? How can _ you _ help me?”

His face softens, brows smoothing. “Let me help you grieve…as I should have done. Let me—”

She laughs, disbelief coursing through her. “You think you can save my soul?”

“I know better than anyone what you’re going through, what it feels like to die and be brought back. You said it yourself. I _ know _ how dead you feel inside. Let me help you.”

She searches his face briefly before giving him the answer they both knew was coming. “No.”

“Dany—”

She laughs at him. “The only thing you want is absolution, and I will _ never _ give that to you.”

“Then don’t,” he says, voice sickeningly earnest. “But let me help you. Give me two months.” 

“Two months?” she snorts.

“Just two months,” he nods. “And if you still want to burn down Westeros…I won’t stop you.”

She doesn’t bother correcting him, doesn’t bother telling him that she had already decided to leave this shithole of a country in peace anyways. She shouldn’t say yes. It will only cause more trouble, their being in close proximity. They are like fire and kerosene with no space to breathe. Still, a part of her whispers at the opportunity. She had come here for revenge, and who is she to deny herself that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #REUNION 
> 
> What did you think??? I love hearing your thoughts be they short, long, coherent, or key smashes <3 Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://thefutureunseen.tumblr.com/) too! 
> 
> I'm going to have to take a short break from posting for life reasons. Next chapter will be up on Feb 29th! xx
> 
> **Update: Next chapter is coming March 7th, rain or shine! So sorry for the lengthy break!**


	9. look at what we have become

“Please,” he whispers, palms outward. His heart races in a sharp pounding rhythm, as if the sight of her alone has jolted the organ back to life. Desperation eats at him like a worm, gnawing its way down deep, because he knows that he must make this right. Somehow. It is all he’s thought about for the last five months. Her. Daenerys. _Dany_. What he would do differently if he had the power to turn back time. What he would have _ said _ given the chance. And now that she is here, standing before him, he is blundering it, making a mess of this chance he never thought he would have. 

She looks like a statue of impenetrable ice, her features cut sharply from the frozen surface, more angular than he remembers them. As if the time apart has worn on her. Jon wonders what she sees in his face, if she notes the dark shadows under his eyes or the unkemptness of his beard. How could she? She can barely look at him. He sees flickers there, in those lilac eyes, sparks of fire which burn bright and then are quenched by stubborn, cold determination. She wavers between blank apathy and a burning rage he can barely stand to see. He wishes she would just yell, just scream at him and tell him how to fix what he has done. 

“Please,” he says again, begs her, then immediately regrets it. Jon can see the memory which passes across her face in a ripple of hurt and fury. He remembers a different plea, one she had entreated to him, begging him to _ wait,_ to refrain from telling his family of his true origins. He had not listened. He regrets it now, regrets it all, regrets how his actions slaughtered the only life he had ever created. It paralyzes him, this knowledge, the truth of what he has done, what _ he _ has cost them. And yet, the most painful truth of it all is the certainty lodged deep in his chest, a certainty that if time folded on end, he would still make the same foolish mistake, be blinded by the same stubborn loyalty to a family that had all but forgotten him. What a fucking fool he has been. 

Her pale lips curl into a cruel picture, more grimace than smile, and the expression sends a shaft of ice straight through his heart. Jon can see the hatred simmering in her eyes; she doesn’t even try to conceal it. If looks could kill, he would be dead thrice over. 

Jon exhales sharply, the air ripped from his chest as she turns to climb onto Drogon. He starts forward, but the dragon’s eyes fix menacingly on his person. 

“Dany—”

She doesn’t look back, doesn’t flinch. The pair take to the sky even as he runs, crashing through the trees to watch them disappear over the northern ridge. 

_North. _

She’s flying north. 

Back towards the Spine. 

Jon’s mind spins, a million emotions eddying through him, but his awareness cannot move past the fact that she is _ alive_, that she is drawing breath. The knowledge fills his whole being until the other pieces seem inconsequential. He lets out a shaky laugh, running an unsteady hand through his hair, then stills. Fear assails him as he remembers it is not just his own life he’s bargaining with, but the lives of the wildlings as well, people who trust him. She’s alive…She’s alive— 

The ruin of King’s Landing blooms before his eyes. His heart sinks, and his expression hardens. He’ll have to be careful, vigilant to ensure they _ both _ don’t come to regret whatever it is they’ve agreed to. 

It takes a full day of hard riding for Jon to reach the Wildling village before sundown. He isn’t consciously aware that he’s been holding his breath until he breaks through the treeline and exhales. The familiar sight of the settlement lays undisturbed, structures intact. No trace of fire. No trace of Dany either… _ Maybe I was wrong_, Jon thinks as he slows Eydis and approaches the town. Maybe Dany had left with nothing but that vicious smile as parting. He supposes he deserves it. 

Ghost trots ahead and then bounds to greet Tormund as the wildling walks towards the small party. Jon slides from his dark mount and leads the horse the rest of the way on foot. The tall ginger raises his arms and tilts his head down at Jon. 

“Little Crow,” he pulls Jon into a rough hug then pushes him back, a foul twinkle in his eyes. 

“Is she—” Jon doesn’t even have a chance to finish his question or define who ‘she’ is; Tormund knows instantly. 

“She’s here,” the big man grins.

“And Drogon?”

Tormund lets out a long whistle and points skyward. Jon nods, shoulders relaxing. He’s not sure what brings him more relief: that Dany’s here or that she hasn’t burned anything down…yet. 

“Where—” he starts.

Tormund claps him on the back, winking. “Your cabin.”

Shock and something else, some…less describable emotions shoot through him. “Really?”

The wildling shrugs, “To be fair, I don’t think she knows it’s yours.” 

Jon snorts. That sounds more likely. 

“If there’s any trouble, I’ll gladly share my cabin with her,” Tormund remarks with a lively grin. Thick, possessive jealousy uncoils in Jon’s gut, so swiftly that it takes his breath away, but it dies just as suddenly, replaced by a heavy shame that reminds him he has no right to such feelings. The wildling just laughs, oblivious, as Jon’s expression hardens. “Didn’t think so.”

He shoots Tormund a withering look and turns towards the lake, towards where Dany unknowingly waits; Jon feels the shame grow inside of him. 

“She’s going to eat you alive,” Tormund calls after him, laughing. Jon only shakes his head. The wildling doesn’t know the half of it.   
  


Dany stares at the logs crackling in the hearth. She tries to find some comfort in the knowledge that she created this fire with her own two hands, but—any triumph slips away easier than smoke through the chimney. 

She doesn’t know what the hell she is doing back here. Tormund had not said a word when she returned only a few hours after she had departed. He just nodded and said there was food in the hall. Dany had not touched it. She’d spent the rest of the day making this fucking fire and telling herself that she would leave before nightfall. But despite her best efforts, her feet will not budge. She cannot tell whether it is the loneliness or the hurt or the rage which keeps her body firmly planted in this wooden chair. It’s been so long since she allowed herself to feel this much, and it’s…overwhelming, disorienting. She cannot tell the ground from the sky. It is as if…as if she learned to read briefly as a child before someone had slipped a shroud over her eyes for a decade, only to remove it now and demand she read a verse. The words are jumbled, fuzzy, and unfamiliar. So she latches on to the words that hurts the least, the ones that makes her feel some modicum of control. She reminds herself that she is here to make Jon Snow suffer, to exact her price without fire or blood, but to exact it all the same. And when she is done with him, he will be the one wishing for the sweet mercy of death. Only then will she leave this whole nightmare behind. Only then will she be free. 

A gust of cold air carries a flurry of snow into the small cabin causing the flames to dance. Dany tenses and then twists sharply in the chair. 

She is on her feet in seconds. Her body squared to where Jon stands in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the fading sky. He stomps the powder from his boots and steps inside. The dagger flashes in the firelight as Dany draws it, striding up to place the blade against his thick fur coat.

“What,” she drags out the word, “are you doing here?”

Jon meets her glare with a level gaze. “Coming inside.”

“I don’t think so.” 

“You’re in my house, Dany.”

Her mouth parts slightly. His house? Her lips pinch together, jaw working. She smiles sharply, “Then point me in the direction of an unoccupied cabin, and I will leave.”

“There isn’t one,” he replies easily. “Can I come in now?” He eyes the dagger, then her. Dany’s face flushes. 

“What do you _ mean _ there isn’t one?”

“Every family or wildling built their own home when we arrived. No one thought we’d be having guests who required their own luxury accommodations.” 

Dany’s stomach coils as she realizes why the bed had smelled familiar the night before. It smelled like him, like_ Jon_. When she speaks there is acid in her voice, “No unfortunate deaths?”

Jon’s eyes narrow, and he pushes the dagger away, stepping in and closing the door with a dull thud. Her fingers tighten around the dagger’s hilt. 

“Fortunately not,” he bites out. “But Tormund’s offered his bed if you would like to join him.” 

Heat sears through her chest and into her cheeks. Dany blinks and turns away, walking back towards the fire. She hears Jon let out a long sigh and begin to move about the cabin. Dany crosses her arms, dagger tucked under her left, and listens to what she thinks is the whisper of fabric falling onto wood. A loud thud follows. His sword? She swallows, hair prickling on the back of her neck. Maybe she will sleep in Tormund’s bed. It would be worth it just to see the look on Jon’s face, although he didn’t seem to particularly care. What the fuck was she doing here?

“Dany—”

She starts. His voice is uncomfortably close. He steps towards the fire, his shoulder nearly brushing against her own. Her heart thunders as she turns to face him. 

“What was your plan, Jon?” she snaps, a humorless laugh rising between them. “When you so graciously offered to help me, what was your plan? I’m here… so where am I supposed to stay? Did you really think I would crawl back into your bed and say ‘thank you’ for sharing just enough space for my body to exist?” 

His brows furrow in that way she used to find so endearing. Now it just makes her want to vomit. He shakes his head, “I didn’t think that far—”

She laughs, “Of course, you didn’t.”

“What do you want, Dany?” He turns to face her more fully, his voice rising. 

“What do I _ want?_ I want you to get out.”

“Other than that—”

“I want you to die a slow and painful death.” 

His face hardens, and his own harsh laugh fills the room, “Why did you come then? If you hate me so much, why did you come?”

“Because I want to watch you burn,” she hisses, stepping forward.

“Then call Drogon! Have him torch me like you torched King’s Landing.”

She grits her teeth to keep her lips from trembling. “I hate you.”

“I can see that,” Jon mutters, turning back to the fire. She looks down and notices that he is no longer wearing his fur, just a black tunic and breeches. The dagger would slide in easily now. Dany’s fingers twitch, and she wrenches her gaze away from him. 

Silence stretches between them, filled only by the occasional pop of the smoldering logs. She can feel him dragging in air beside her, can see his chest expand in her periphery. Finally, he says in an even tone, voice almost soft. 

“You can have the bed. I’ll sleep by the fire.”

She scoffs, and his eyes flash to her. “You think I’ll be able to sleep, be able to let my body relax enough to close my eyes lying only a few feet from the man who murdered me _ and _ my child?”

He flinches, the blood draining from his already pale face. “What do you need—”

“I need to feel safe,” she snaps, fist clenching at her side to keep the tremors from starting. “And that is never going to happen with you in the room.” 

Jon stares at her for a long moment, his stormcloud eyes flickering over her face. Then he nods, grabs his coat, and strides from the cabin. Her gaze follows him, and she stares at the door long after he is gone. She tries to find the victory, the triumph in this, but she just feels tired and—alone. And angry. 

Dany waits for over half an hour, and when Jon doesn’t return, she finally shucks her clothing and crawls beneath the heavy furs. The smell of winter fires and frosted pine trees fills her nostrils. She tries to relax, tries to make her muscles release and her heart stop pounding, but the smell of him is everywhere. It surrounds her. 

She lays there for hours, waiting for exhaustion to take her, but it seems even the gods have no small mercies. She stares at the rafters and thinks that _ this _ is far worse. The not knowing. Her imagination runs wild, a never-ending thread of possibilities. She imagines Jon falling into the frozen lake or walking off a cliff in the dark. She imagines him huddled just outside the door. She imagines him with a wildling woman who is tall and tan and buxom. Her hatred and resentment keep her solidly awake into the wee hours until she feels hysterical from lack of sleep, until she wishes he was here so at least she would be able to hear his heavy breath, would be able to tell her body to relax, knowing that he was already fast asleep. 

Jon’s wildling is not tan or busty, but she is tall and willowy and…_blonde. _ Daenerys watches from outside the mess hall as Jon smiles and says something that makes the tall, willowy blonde laugh. 

Something ugly raises its head within the Targaryen, curling around her insides like a snake and clamping down. She hates him. Every cell in her body screams this at her. In her mind’s eye, she imagines him bursting into flames and wonders if she can summon enough rage to make it so. Instead, she sees Bea’s tiny broken face from her dream. Dany’s lips pinch into a thin white line. 

A low whistle pulls her gaze from the pair, and she observes Tormund, the fire-kissed wildling jogging lazily up the steps. That same unwavering grin splits his face. “You could stop a man’s heart with that stare, dragon queen.” 

“I am trying,” she mutters lowly. He manages to hear her nonetheless. Tormund looks back at the pair standing cozily in the town square and then laughs. 

“Don’t worry. She’s a nice girl, but she doesn’t have your _ fire_.” 

A nice girl… the words sink into Dany’s heart like a lodestone. She too had been a _ nice _ girl. Once upon a time. Before the world started to crush her. Before those she trusted most abandoned her. Before she abandoned herself. 

“I’m not jealous if that’s what you’re implying,” she drawls, her tone as dry as Dornish sand. 

The big man looks offended. “I never imply.”

Dany raises her eyebrows slowly. “I don’t believe you can utter a complete sentence without some sort of innuendo, Tormund.”

“It’s a Giant thing.” 

“See?”

He chuckles.

“Jon told me of your…offer…to share your cabin,” she adds when he frowns. “Quite generous of you.” 

“Ah, yes,” he smiles. “I was waiting for you all night.”

Daenerys laughs, “I appreciate the gesture even if your intentions are less than honorable.” 

“Honor is for southern lords. I am no knight,” the wildling leans in conspiratorially. “And we both know Jon Snow’s got too much ‘honor’ for the whole damn North. Someone’s got to be a bit reckless to get anything done around here.” 

Dany rolls her eyes, letting out a soft huff of air, almost a laugh. “You’re a terrible friend.”

“Why are you a terrible friend?” Jon’s voice breaks over the pair as he climbs the steps to join them. His _ nice _ girl only gives a short wave before heading inside the mess hall. 

Daenerys meets Jon’s unflinching gaze and lets her lips drag upwards in a slow feline smile, a challenge, then turns and follows the young chit into the hall. 

“I’m the best friend!” Tormund shouts after her and then more softly—though Dany still hears—“See, I told you she would eat you alive.”

The next few days pass slowly; there is an agonizing crawl to each spent minute in this small settlement: too much time, too much space. Dany barely sleeps, and when she does, she is assailed by dreams of King’s Landing or Stygai, of the way Jon Snow had laughed as she stumbled blindly, nearly broken. When she wakes from those dreams, she clings to them, clings to the way it sends a sharp jolt through her entire chest. She remembers it, nurses it whenever he tries to speak with her, whenever she can feel other unsavory emotions rising around him. But mostly he leaves her alone. Jon doesn’t attempt to reclaim his cabin or _ help her_, whatever that means. She catches glimpses of him during the day: in the hall or working with the other wildlings to construct a stable. Sometimes she sees him speaking with his ‘nice’ girl who Dany learns is called Sylvi. 

Mostly Daenerys just feels listless, restless, lost. Her body aches in ways she never thought possible, and she wonders when she will get used to this feeling of being…not dead, but not altogether alive either, as if Kinvara had only managed to bring back a fraction of Daenerys Targaryen from whatever hell still housed the rest of her soul. Sometimes Dany wondered if the red priestess brought back the wrong piece, the half of her that had already been bent and misshapen by this world. 

When she’s not counting the boards of wood in the ceiling of Jon’s cabin, she walks for hours around the lake or flies over the Spine with Drogon. There is an openness to the North which frightens her, an endless expanse of white. Nowhere to hide. Not even from herself. 

Daenerys is lost in thought, almost back to the village after a long walk when she hears a sharp giggle. Her eyes drag up from tracing the ground, and she spies Bea laughing with another small child. A boy. The two throw pebbles out across the frozen lake and watch as they skip and slide against the ice. 

“Daenerys!” the little girl squeals, running for Dany as soon as she nears the western shore. Bea’s small hands cling to the Targaryen and pull Dany over to the water’s edge with surprising ferocity. “We’re playing skag sha’mad. Do you want to join?”

Stunted warmth seeps through Dany at the childlike joy which radiates from the girl. She tries to smile. “No, thank you.” Bea’s expression falls, a light being snuffed out, so Daenerys adds quickly, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to play.”

The girl’s dark eyes brighten. “It’s easy! Whoever throws their rock the farthest wins.”

Dany nods slowly, “But you will be at a disadvantage as I am older and have longer arms.” 

Bea frowns and continues to stare at Dany, a puzzled look pinching her precious features. Dany laughs softly. “Give me a rock.”

The children whoop in excitement and skitter around to gather more rocks. The game is unsurprisingly simple and quite easy, but Bea’s exuberance makes it fun, and Dany cannot help but laugh along when Tristyn slips while throwing. Dany ‘wins’ more than once, but they don’t seem to mind. They don’t seem to care much about the outcome, outside of enjoying themselves. And it must be her rapture at the camaraderie of their little team, this welcome distraction which causes her to forget, to relax and become wholly unaware of her surroundings. 

Dany’s cheeks sting fiercely from the cold, and she lets out a barking laugh when her stone slams into Bea’s, sending the little girl’s into first place. She spins around, clapping her hands together as Bea lets out a victorious hollar. The smile slides from Dany’s lips. 

Jon stands beside the nearest house, his gaze fixed on the trio; the expression on his face is as serious and unreadable as ever. He moves towards them, and it’s only then that Dany realizes he is not alone. Sylvi walks alongside him, the pair approaching with more ease than the Targaryen feels. 

The frigid air snaps at Dany’s face, and she blinks. She tries to find the barriers inside herself, which had somehow vanished in the last twenty minutes. Her numb fingers dig beneath her arms, tucked into her side as if she might physically hold herself together. 

“Having fun?’ Jon asks, the same strange expression coloring his features. Was he mocking her? Judging her? Warning her? Dany doesn’t know. She just stares at him. He clears his throat, gesturing to the woman beside him. “Sylvi was looking for her brother. She asked me to help.” He says it like it’s an apology. 

“How noble.”

Jon frowns, his brows furrowing in that infuriating way. 

“Thank you,” Sylvi gives Jon a warm smile. Her voice is light and musical, slightly breathless. Dany hates it; her violet eyes follow Sylvi as the younger woman ushers the children back towards the village. Bea waves goodbye. A lump forms in Dany’s throat; she raises her hand, mirroring the little girl’s farewell. She can feel that familiar emptiness returning, can feel it turn sharp and bitter when she realizes that Jon still stands but a few feet from her. 

“You two seem close,” she remarks, eyes flicking back to Sylvi. Anything to keep her mind off of the hollowness in her abdomen. The deadness_. _

Jon’s stormy gaze follows her own. “Yes. Yes, she’s a nice—”

“A nice girl. I know.”

Silence falls between them, and it aches like the biting cold surrounding her. “Her cabin is _ nice _ too, I presume?” she bites out. As soon as the words leave her lips, she wishes she could take them back, roll them up into a tight ball and shove them back down her throat. Her bitter loneliness suddenly a visible, pulsating shape between them. It’s not about him. She doesn’t _ want _ him. She just— 

Dany keeps her eyes trained on the village. There is an excruciatingly long lull, and then Jon says, “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been sleeping in a cave two miles east of here. With Ghost, if you were wondering.”

She nods, but doesn’t look at him, doesn’t take her focus away from the closest log cabin, doesn’t let herself analyze any of the emotions swirling within her. 

“You can sleep here,” she says, her mouth barely moving, then adds, “on the floor.” 

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t react in any audible way, doesn’t seem to move. She twists her head, glancing at him over her right shoulder. Jon stares at her. 

“Just to be clear,” she smiles coldly, “I still hate you, and I will be sleeping with a dagger beneath my pillow.” 

Something flickers across his expression—amusement, surprise, frustration—but it is gone too quickly for Daenerys to interpret. 

He nods, “Understood.”

Her feet crunch against the snow as she walks away. She doesn’t look back. 

That night she waits by the fire for him, waits to hear his footsteps outside, waits for him to show up. She holds the dagger in her lap and twists the blade over and over and over, staring at its reflective surface. The minutes tick into hours, and when embers are all that’s left of the dying fire, she lets out a derisive snort and heads to bed. She wonders, briefly, before a restless sleep finally claims her, who exactly she is torturing: Jon or herself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....how are you feeling? What did you think? I love hearing your thoughts be they short, long, coherent, or key smashes <3 Come yell at me on [Tumblr](https://thefutureunseen.tumblr.com/) too!
> 
> Shout out to my wonderful betas: jwmab003 and inevitablyyou!
> 
> **Song Rec:** Save Yourself by Birdy


	10. i'm just protecting my soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey lovelies <3 I hope you are all safe and healthy and having a nice memorial day. Thank you, thank you, thank you for your patience with this update. Please know that I've read all of your comments and your words really helped motivate me to get this update out. I'll be responding to all of them shortly! 
> 
> _Note:_ this story has a lot heavy angst on the way to HEA so please take care of yourself as you read this. If you're not in the right headspace that is understandable and totally okay. This story will be here for you when you are. 
> 
> _**TW:**_ suicidal thoughts and ideation, depression, heavy angst 
> 
> _Betas:_ jwmab003 and inevitablyyou

She wakes in pieces, snatches of light: her bare skin against fur, an aching heaviness in her muscles, the empty fluttering of her stomach, and…soft breath whispering through the cabin—she starts, tension rippling through her body as her violet eyes fly open. Her breathing stalls. She waits, listening. 

A rumbling snore rises from the far end of the cabin, near the hearth. Daenerys sits up, fur clutched to her chest, and stares at the dark shadow on the floor. Jon’s broad back faces her; his cloak is draped across him like a haphazard blanket. The edge of the fur rises off the floor with each inhalation. She can see his shoulders twitch, a chill running through him, no warmth left from the dead hearth. Her hand clenches against her—against _ his _ blanket, which shields her body. 

Daenerys blinks, swallows, then drags her gaze away. She tries not to wonder when he arrived or dwell on the fact that she must have been asleep and vulnerable_ . _ Her toes curl away from the icy floor as she slides from the bed and slips into her black velvet dress. With measured movements, she shrugs on a coat of pale fur. It is only once she has fastened it closed that the silence of the room registers. She turns. 

A frown furrows Jon’s brow as he blinks up at her. His grey eyes are unfocused from sleep, and black curls fall messily across his face. For once, his expression is unshuttered. Open. And he seems…curious rather than wary. His lips part as if he might ask her a question, as if he might call out to her from the short distance which separates them. 

_ Come back to bed_. 

She hears the whispered words rise like a phantom between them, becoming clearer the longer she holds his gaze, words which echo in her mind from long ago. Though, she supposes, it has only been a handful of months. Six, at most. It feels like a lifetime has passed since then—a hundred lifetimes. 

_ Come back to bed. _ Warmth rises in her cheeks, and she tells herself it’s anger. She can handle anger. It has long been her companion. He hears them too. Those unspoken words. She is sure of it because the sleep fades from his eyes and that guarded, wary shield slides back into place, sharpening his features. 

She arches her brows, coolly, “Better than a cave?”

He only grunts and turns over, his broad back facing her once more. Daenerys’ lips twists, and she lets out a soft snort. The man before her is more animal than lord. She wonders what the Daenerys Targaryen of just a few years ago, the proud Dragon, would have made of him. Maybe she would have eaten the Wolf’s heart rather than keep it as a false treasure. Fool’s gold. Dany wishes she could turn back time, just for a moment, and warn herself that this White Wolf would burn her whole world to the ground. She lets her eyes linger over Jon for less than a heartbeat before striding from the cabin. 

Over the next two weeks, they fall into an unspoken routine. During the day, they say very little to one another; Daenerys says very little to anyone other than Tormund and Bea. Sometimes she can feel Jon’s eyes watching her, but aside from the few occasions where their paths cross, he seems to avoid her presence entirely. 

In the evenings, he arrives well after she has fallen asleep, and she leaves for her morning walk well before he rises. When the rigid silence between them becomes more than she can bear, Daenerys finds Drogon and flies north, flies until the snow slides into the ocean. Every time she returns, Jon simply stares for a long moment and then nods. “You’re back,” he remarks, as if he had not quite expected to see her again. 

In truth, Daenerys is never sure why she returns. Each time she means not to, but…here she is. Again. And Jon seems about as clueless of the ways to help her as he is about the rest of his life. Maybe he thought the excess of silence would calm her ragged thoughts. Instead, it has only made the voices in her head louder and more demanding. They are cruel and eager to point out the loneliness which festers inside of her. Dany wants to make him suffer, but it seems she doesn't know how. She cannot find the energy to devise a fitting punishment as her dreams grow in violence, and her nights become more restless. Whatever it is her body is doing, it is not healing or acclimatizing to life. In fact, it seems to be rejecting the possibility in every way, as if by sheer will it might drag her back into the grave. 

One month. That’s all Jon has left to reach her. The first had dragged by and then disappeared altogether. She seems no less broken now than when he had found her crumpled in the snow. She is…like a ghost, a shade of the woman he once knew, haunting the village with her quiet footsteps, her black dress dragging through the pale snow—a reminder of all he has done, of the blood on his hands. 

Jon doesn’t know how to reach her. He tries to talk to her, and she cuts him down with biting words. He gives her space, and she seems to resent it as much as she hates his presence. So he tries to atone with his actions, to help with even the smallest things. He chops enough firewood to last two winters and makes sure the hearth is always lit. He brings in snow and melts it for her to bathe in. He asks Tormund to watch over Ghost in the evenings so that she will feel safe or as close to that as is possible anymore. Still, she fades. And he supposes this is his punishment, his stone to carry, having to watch her die all over again with no power to stop it. 

_ One more month_. It is the only thought passing through his consciousness as he wakes to an empty cabin that morning. As he eats a bland breakfast in the mess hall and talks with Tormund about the group hunt later that day. As he gathers his things and meets the rest of the party in the square. 

Most of the town shows up, though only a handful will be going. Tormund is recounting his giantess story to Leif, though the young man has no doubt heard it twice already. Movement by the hall catches Jon’s eyes, and he looks up to observe Dany—_ Daenerys _. She leans against the wall, her cloak drawn closed against the frigid air. It isn’t a physical wound that eats at her spirits; Jon realizes this the longer he stares at her. Her skin is healthy and flushed—her face rounder than when she had first arrived. But, there is a hollowness in her eyes that seems to yawn open whenever she thinks no one is looking. Jon is so distracted by this sudden awareness that he barely notices Sylvi slide in beside him. 

“Flagon of ale for the first one who bags a beast that weighs heavier than them.”

Jon glances over and smiles at the tall girl. “We both know you’re a better shot.”

“So, you owe me one already then?” She bumps her shoulder playfully against his. 

“Fair enough,” Jon chuckles and shakes his head. His eyes dart back to the shadow at the hall and widen as they meet a lilac gaze. Daenerys looks away, her movement as slow and deliberate as a dragon. 

“Must be hard,” Sylvi’s voice drags his attention back. The blonde is looking across the crowd at the Targaryen queen. Jon frowns, a question on his lips. “For her,” Sylvi nods her head towards Daenerys. “To go from ruling Kingdoms to this—asking questions to the wind...walking in the quiet snow.” 

Jon’s chest tightens at the young woman’s words. He smiles bitterly at his stupidity. What a colossal fool he has been to think that the quiet would bring her the same peace it has brought him. She hadn’t needed space or quiet. She had only withdrawn into herself more. Maybe what she needed was to feel alive, to feel needed, useful even. 

“I think you might be right,” he murmurs, placing a hand on Sylvi’s shoulder and squeezing lightly in gratitude, before moving through the crowd. 

He pushes past Leif and Tormund, his path a straight arrow towards Dany. Her shoulders stiffen the closer he gets, but she holds his gaze, chin lifted. Jon halts before her; the cold, calculating fire in her eyes, makes him pause. Maybe—maybe he is wrong about this too…he plows forward before he can convince himself otherwise. 

“Would you like to come hunting?”

The ice in her eyes cracks briefly, shock seeping through, but the small emotion disappears as swiftly as it had come. 

“And how do you suppose I will catch an animal in this?” She gestures down at the black velvet, which shifts beneath her cloak. 

He opens his mouth, but another voice, a soft, feminine one, interjects, “You can borrow something of mine.”

Jon turns to see Sylvi has followed him across the square, bow slung casually over one shoulder. 

“Alright.” Daenerys’ voice is hard, and when Jon looks back, he sees a cold, feline smile on her face. She extends it to him and then lifts her skirts, trailing after Sylvi as the young wildling disappears back into the crowd. 

  


The girl’s cabin is as _ nice _ as she seems to be. Far more decorations dot the walls: a handwoven tapestry, a few animal skins, a pair of antlers, even a bouquet of dried flowers though Dany has no idea where she would have picked them. It is very much a _ home _ compared to the empty shell that Jon inhabits. Dany can tell the wildling doesn’t live here alone. The girl confirms it shortly after, pointing out her parents’ rooms and the one she shares with her brother. 

“Here,” the tall blonde hands Daenerys a pair of buckskin pants, a wool shirt, and a vest of rabbit fur. “I grew out of them awhile back. Haven’t been as small as you since I was fourteen.” 

Dany smiles tightly and takes the clothes without a word. She waits for the wildling to leave or least turn around, but the girl simply stares, expectant. Dany sighs and begins to strip despite the lack of privacy. Her skin crawls with the feeling of being on display. She wonders if it is the wildling custom or if the girl is trying to size her up. Why did it have to be _ her? _ It could have been anyone else, Dany thinks bitterly. 

The young girl chatters amicably about nothing. The village. Her family. But she lets out a loud gasp when Dany’s dress falls. Her doe eyes fix on the crescent scar below Dany’s left breast. “What happened?”

Dany doesn’t look down, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t curve her shoulders in like her body wants to. She simply slips on the buckskin pants and throws the woolen shirt over her torso. “Love, I suppose,” she finally mutters when the girl continues to stare. Dany buttons the vest; both it and the pants are tighter than is comfortable, but they will do. 

“Were you injured defending Jon?” Sylvi asks, her tone quite serious.

Daenerys snorts. “What makes you think that?”

“Well,” the girl clears her throat. “I mean, you…and he acts like…well, you just seem…”

Dany raises her eyebrows.

“Like you’re his woman,” the wildling finishes with a casual shrug that contradicts the flush of color in her cheeks. 

“I’m not.”

“Oh.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, you wouldn’t mind then if I…?”

Dany’s stomach turns. “By all means,” she bites out. “He’s yours.” 

“Right!” Sylvi smiles brightly. “Do you want me to braid your hair?”

“No.” The word comes out much harsher than Dany intends. Her hands begin to shake, so she clenches them into fists at her sides. “No, thank you,” she breathes out, forcing her tone to remain steady. “I can do it myself.” 

She takes the leather from Sylvi’s hands and uses her fingers to brush through her tangled bone-white hair. It’s grown since she severed it, since she sacrificed her braid in Meereen. Not much. Only enough to hover above her armpits. She ignores the tremors which run down her hands as she ties the blunt hair back. Just a simple braid. Nothing special. Not like what Missandei could have done. 

The grief bubbles up inside of her, and this time Daenerys sinks into it, welcomes it, lets it steady her fingers and her heart. After all, it’s the only piece of her friend she has left. 

The sun has crested well over the farthest ridge of the Spine when the two women return to the town square. Daenerys has never been covered in so much fur in her entire life, and yet somehow, she still manages to feel naked, exposed. Her pale hair is pulled away from her face as it hasn’t been for months, and she can feel the rough leather pants chafe at her legs. Her gloved fingers pull the coat tighter around her shoulders as they approach the hunting party. Jon and Tormund look up, pausing mid-conversation, and the ginger brute lets out a low whistle. 

“You might be made for the North, after all, little dragon queen.”

Dany’s face remains expressionless, but her eyes drift over to Jon. It’s an innocent action. Not like she intended anything by it. But he stares back at her for a moment then looks out at something behind her, giving an almost imperceptible nod, “It suits you.”

He says it like a pat on the head, like he thinks she needs his approval, like she is waiting for it. Tension ripples up Dany’s neck, and she bristles. Fury slices through her stomach, hot and ripe, forcing her mouth open to utter the gods only knew what. 

“Well, come on then.” Tormund clears his throat and gestures to the hunting party. He gives Dany a pointed look and then strides off. Her narrow gaze fixes on the ginger’s back, but before Dany can decide whether to follow or to leave them all to their pitiful sport, a steady, warm pressure encircles her arm. She glances down to see Jon’s dark-gloved fingers wrapping around her snowy wrist like an obsidian serpent. Her breath stalls sharply, but he releases her before the protest can leave her lips. 

“Here,” Jon says, a longbow of pale birch balanced in his outstretched hand. 

Dany takes the weapon, fingers placed as far from his as possible. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t thank him or acknowledge the _ gift _. She keeps her gaze absent, pointedly fixed ahead, and tries to force some distance between them with each heavy step she punches through the powdery snow. 

It’s no use. He stays close as the hunting party walks out of town and up into the mountains. He haunts each of her steps as they snake along the sharp face, making a trail of footprints stamped into fresh powder. He doesn’t say anything, but she can feel him like a shadow at her back, a prickling warmth at the nape of her neck. It feels like they walk for hours or maybe only a few minutes. For Dany, it is hard to tell. She tries to lose herself in the snowy forest, in the quiet which is broken only by the shuffle of feet and murmured conversation, but it is hopeless. Her mind dances as easily as the evergreen leaves through the wind. Up ahead, she can spy Sylvi’s long braid, swaying back and forth; it looks almost copper in the sunlight—a shining beacon. And when she’s not watching that pendulum of blonde hair, the steady crunch of footsteps at her back drags her attention elsewhere. She wishes he would move forward...or fall farther back, anything really but this constant gust of warm breath against her hair. Eventually, she breaks. 

“You have an admirer.” Her voice is breathless from exertion, not as biting nor as cold as she intended. She feels his presence at her back falter and fade. Dany turns. His signature frown sits securely in place. It appears she had caught him mid-thought.

Jon stares at her like he is weighing the scales on whether or not to respond. Like he knows she is looking for a way in, to needle something out of him. The fact that he can read her so easily makes Daenerys want to scream. Warmth rises to her cheeks, but Dany forces her features to smooth into a placid, mirror-like surface. Her head tilts towards the train of people disappearing into the forest. 

“Sylvi,” she drawls out then continues to walk. “She is quite taken with Jon Snow, King Beyond the Wall.” She can feel him fall into step behind her, the needles dragging down her spine. 

“I’m not King Beyond—”

Dany snorts loudly. “One day, you’re going to have to realize that every bone in your body was made for leadership. Why do you insist on pretending to be something that you’re not?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Jon says, his voice stiff and laden with frustration. She is getting to him. 

Daenerys spins around, and he has to take a step back to keep from plowing into her. Her lips twist into a smirk as his stormy eyes narrow. He is annoyed. He can tell she is toying with him. And it’s _ delicious _.

She tilts her chin up, eyes locking onto his. “I am everything I have always claimed to be. I never said I wasn’t a monster.” 

Jon remains silent as if he is waiting for her to be done, waiting for her to give up and keep walking, for her to finally leave him in peace. Instead, Dany cocks her head to one side. 

“Is that a _ no _ for Sylvi then? Poor girl. I could have told her you’d break her heart.” Jon glares at her, but Dany pushes on, chest heaving and voice light, almost...chaotic. “It was sweet of her to ask for my permission, though I can’t imagine why she would—” 

He snorts, “Maybe it’s because you’re sleeping in my bed.”

Dany’s cheeks flush crimson, and she snaps, “Well, that is easily remedied. Shall I go see if Tormund still needs company? Just say the word, Jon, and I’ll find another body to keep me warm. No need to halt your little romance on my account.” 

His eyes turn to flint, and he steps forward, inhaling. But he doesn’t speak. His stride stops short of her, and he only glares down. His stormcloud eyes are as bottomless and severe as ever. She used to get lost in those eyes. Now she just wants to burn them. She laughs sharply, her breath puffing the curls from his face, and spins on her heel. 

His hand darts out, grabbing her forearm and dragging her back. She collides with the solid wall of his chest, and her vision narrows across his dark gaze. Her heart hammers, a warning as the tension between them is pulled taut like a bowstring, as the forest grows inhumanly quiet. 

She can see it, the fight vibrating within him, an entire lake dammed behind a buckling wall. His quiet restraint slowly fraying at the edges. She wants to see it, wants to be the one to pull the braces from that flimsy barrier, and watch the water come spilling out of him, wants to watch him fall apart into something beyond this impassive shadow. 

Anger shutters across his face, and she feels triumph swell to meet it, to taste his destruction. Her breath stalls, her heart refuses to beat, then…

The wall holds, the anger slides from his features, and the impassive, gracious man stands before her once more. Jon’s hand falls to his side, but she can still feel the print of him, the heat which penetrates through her furs. 

“Do whatever you want, Daenerys. I won’t stop you.” There is a cloying sincerity in his voice, an exhaustion. As if it would take too much energy to convince her otherwise. He holds her gaze for a moment and then slides past her to join the rest of the group. 

He feels _ sick _. Anger twits his stomach into knots. His hands shake, and he is forced to curl them into fists at his side to stop their trembling. A derisive sound, more exhale than laugh, escapes from his rigid jaw and poisons the cold mountain air. 

He has been such a fool—such an utter _ fool _ . How did he ever think he could help Daenerys? What was the probability when he was barely holding himself together? Why had he even offered? Had it even been for her? No…no, of course not. Gods, he was such a selfish bastard. The irony of the thought feels dry and stale in his mouth, and the truth of it is even harder to swallow—he had convinced a broken woman to stay just to ease his own twisted conscience. That’s what he had done, wasn’t it? Tried to run from his past, from his mistakes, from the grief that was waiting just below the fragile surface of his composure. _ There was no one to blame but himself. _

Jon’s chest deflates on a stunted exhale. If he truly let that thought in, if he gave it credence and finally let go of his excuses and righteous indignation at what Dany had done, he…would have to face himself. He would have to face his shadow. He—

He had killed his own child. 

A spasm runs through Jon’s hand, and he blinks against a watery, iridescent landscape. His pack and bow feel infinitely heavy against his back, but the weight is a welcome distraction, and he focuses his attention on that instead of the hole inside of him. He shifts the bow to rest against his other shoulder and stares at the trail ahead, at the snow stamped with footprints, anything to keep the sob locked firmly in his chest, to keep this ocean from consuming him. 

If he lets go, he will drown. If he lets go, there will be nothing stopping him from plunging a dagger into his own breast. A warm wave of relief washes through Jon as he remembers the peace of that infinite oblivion, that velvet darkness, a place where earthly responsibilities were wisps of smoke and guilt was softer than a single grain of sand. What he wouldn’t give to feel free of such burden again, to leave behind the weight of this all-consuming duty which has plagued each step of his life. 

The thought barely takes shape before shock, shame, and terror seize hold and drag the relief in Jon’s chest down, down, down. He cannot—he cannot do _ that _. There are people who need him, people he has made promises to. He will breathe and keep his composure, keep taking whatever punishment, whatever barbed words or scathing looks, she throws at his feet. 

Jon stops and turns to her, his mouth parted to say the gods only knew what. The confession clings to his lips like a dying breath as she trudges through the snow towards him, before him, and then past him. He cannot speak; the words stick to his throat. Dany barely glances up, her gaze locked on the stark horizon, her shoulders stiffly set. He can feel the rage which radiates off of her, an almost tangible heat that could melt the winter snow. He feels that heat seep into his bones—a flame drawn to oil—and with it, the darkest parts of him come to life, all the parts of himself he loathes, a monster rearing it ugly, vicious head. And yet, as much as he may hate it, this anger, this incendiary effect she has on him, it is the only thing keeping him alive. So he lets it in. 

He wants to touch her, to make things right, but there is no fixing what he has done. 

So he lets it in. 

He wants to beg for forgiveness, to begin again, but there is no absolution for a crime like his. 

So he lets it in. 

He lets the anger wash over those helpless desires that threaten to consume him, lets it push the ocean of misery down to the very depth of his fractured soul, where it can sit with all the other unfelt pain of his past. He must stay calm, stay in control, stay level headed, however hard. 

These thoughts shift through the shadows of his mind and paint weathered lines on his face. He puts one foot in front of the other and exhales defeat through aching lungs. He stays a few steps behind Daenerys, his eyes fixed on the pale radiance of her hair in the morning light. His fingers twitch. He shifts his pack. He is quiet.

Dany’s feet are sore and swollen by the time the hunting party stops. The energy shifts subtly—the forest becomes quiet, the sound of her breath and her footsteps seem to echo—but all these facts seem inconsequential compared to the sharp pain in her left foot. 

It’s only when Jon’s arm snakes out, grabbing her by the waist, that she realizes something is different. At first, it is just him; the awareness that he is much closer than she previously realized sends a splinter of energy down her spine. 

She flinches and turns to push against his chest, but he presses a finger to her lips and draws her attention past them with a small tilt of his head. In her daze, Daenerys had not noticed the wildlings begin to fan out over the mountainside. They move like ghosts through the forest until they have encircled a copse of trees where a herd of animals grazes. Dany’s eyes widen as she watches the subtle movement of these animals distinguish them from the snow; their greyish-white fur and pale bone-like antlers blend into the landscape so that only the soft snort of warm air condensing might draw the undiscerning eye. These creatures graze on short green shoots which poke through the white earth in thin patches. Dany blinks. At her own feet, a few tufts rise, and in them a tiny yellow flower, so small it almost disappears into the snow.

Jon shifts behind her, and she once more becomes suffocated by the awareness of his proximity. The smell of smoke and pine creeps into her nostrils. Heat spills over her back like warm candle wax, and she pulls abruptly away from him. He doesn’t stop her this time, only indicates for her to draw the bow from her side. 

Dany swallows and fingers the weapon, adjusting it in her grip. Jon’s hand covers her, putting light pressure to slow her jerking movements. His eyes flicker to the clearing in warning; it is clear he wants her to move like a tortoise in winter, excruciatingly slow. 

She jerks her head once and steps deliberately from his grasp. Her right-hand reaches back to grab an arrow. She knocks it, then frowns as the thin wooden shaft begins to slip down the bow. Before she can even breathe, he is at her back again, his arms bracing hers. He slips his gloved fingers over her own to grasp the feathered end and shift it into place against the bowstring. 

Dany inhales sharply through her nose, teeth clenched, and pulls her elbow back without warning. Jon moves just before her elbow can collide with his neck. He steps beside her and pushes down her arm until it is parallel to the ground. 

Fury sweeps through her at his handling, as if she is some puppet on strings to be manipulated. For a moment, she relishes the thought of turning her arrow on him, of what his face might look like in those last few breaths, but her wayward thoughts are disturbed by movement in her periphery. A young buck shifts closer to their side of the clearing, his snout knocking the snow from stray shoots of grass. Dany shifts with infinitesimal movements; she exhales and releases the bowstring. 

Her arrow flies wide and hits the buck’s rump—barely. She had been aiming for the head. Before she can knock the bow again, another arrow flies and strikes the creature straight through its neck. A shrill bleat leaves its mouth as the buck tries to run; it makes it all of three feet before crumpling into the snow. The clearing erupts in chaos. The rest of the herd scatters as more of their brothers fall victim to the wildling hunt. Triumphant shouts fill in the air, mixing with the sounds of death.

Dany swallows, the cacophony echoing in her chest. She stares at her own almost-kill, stares at her arrow in its rump, but it’s the one protruding from its neck which holds her gaze. It jaunts through the flesh at an odd angle, almost like a spear. A scorpion. 

She shudders, a wave of nausea sweeping over her. Her eyes burn. She blinks as Jon walks forward, slinging his longbow onto his back. Dany follows. More to give her body something to do than out of any realized intention. Did he know? Had she ever told him that this was how Rhaegal died? Would he even care? Or had that too been a lie…

Jon draws a knife and presses the tip to the belly of the buck where it lays still in the crimson snow. Her body flashes hot then cold, and she drags her gaze away, flickering over the rest of the clearing, over anything else. 

Sylvi stands over her own kill. The young wildling smiles at Dany, her pale eyes momentarily finding Jon. The smile turns into a grin when she looks back at Dany as if they are sisters who share a secret. 

“Are you alright?”

Jon stands to Dany’s left, inches from her, his eyes watchful and appraising. The concern in his voice makes her bristle, makes her want to scream. It is a false promise, this illusion that he cares. They both know better than that. 

His gray eyes deepen the longer she holds his gaze, widening with something that lays unspoken between them. Perhaps he has even fooled himself into believing these lies. The thought conjures an unpleasant sense of vertigo, a strange tilting of her perspective. Nausea settles over Daenerys. 

Her fingers twitch at her side. 

Her mouth hardens. 

She forces her body to turn away, shuttering herself against the cold mountain air and the half-tortured man who stands behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give me your thoughts/feelings/reactions to this chapter! All caps and key smashes are welcome <3 You know I love to hear from you guys and it always helps motivate me! Come ask questions, theorize about the story, or just yell at me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thefutureunseen).

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? I'm looking for alpha/beta readers for this story. I've written at least 95% of it, but I probably won't post more until I find at least one reader. Let me know if you're interested!


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